


The Sungrazing Comet

by Snappy_Snippets, SzmaragDrac



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Artist Harry Potter, Bad Boy Harry, Blood, Bottom Draco, Candles, Coffee Shops, Dark Harry Potter, Disinheritance, Draco owns a coffee shop, Friedrich - Freeform, Harry Plays The Piano, Harry draws with charcoal, Harry/Other mentioned only, Heavy Angst, M/M, Male Slash, Monet - Freeform, Post-Canon, Post-War, Potter smokes, Powerful Harry Potter, Present Tense, Sensory Deprivation, Slash, Stars, Top Harry Potter, Translation, Wandless Magic, a bit OOC, but he doesn't like coffee xD, lots of art, turner - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8409703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snappy_Snippets/pseuds/Snappy_Snippets, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SzmaragDrac/pseuds/SzmaragDrac
Summary: When one year after the war Draco Malfoy meets Harry Potter again, he is nothing like Draco remembers and Draco has no idea how to go about it.Lots of art, lots of addiction, cigarettes and charcoal, but first and foremost - lots of Drarry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Pod kometą](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6204379) by [SzmaragDrac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SzmaragDrac/pseuds/SzmaragDrac). 



> When I first read this story in Polish about half a year ago, it grabbed me by the throat and it has not let go since. Hoping it's going to do the same to you seems wrong, but I did my best to carry over the power of it.
> 
> A big thank you to [CurlzForMetal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CurlzForMetal/profile) for the beta and following me into my crazy meta-grammar trips. <3
> 
> Artwork by Arsene.
> 
> ~Snappy

  
  


_'How could you,’ he growled through gritted teeth. ‘How could you have betrayed us.’_

_‘Father...’ Draco started, but before he got the chance to finish, Lucius cut him off._

_‘You’re not my son anymore!’ he spat. His face contorted in an ugly grimace as he raised his wand and shouted, ‘_ Exheredeo te! _*’_

_Draco bent in half, feeling as if his veins were on fire. He clenched his hands into fists and tried to suppress the urge to scream. The dark green glow of the spell – so dark it was almost black – lit up the ground. Lucius bent down over Draco’s lying form and whispered into his ear._

_‘You can cross over to their side, but it doesn’t change a thing. You don’t mean anything to them.’ He smiled nastily. ‘You are a comet while Potter is a star. And I think you know very well what that means.’ He bent further down and his tone was almost affectionate. ‘When a comet is near a star, it dissolves gradually until it dies in the abyss of the planetary system.’_

_He straightened, put on his Death Eater mask and vanished into thin air, leaving Draco alone, on the ground, stifling tears and finally letting himself cry out as the pain ran through his veins and into every part of his body._

  


CHAPTER 1

  


‘Three regular espressos and a cappuccino to go.’

The coffee shop, all in shades of brown, is very spacious. The setting of the tables may seem random, but in fact their placement is highly deliberate – it allows for everyone to draw back their seats and stand up without disturbing the other patrons. The large windows are enchanted in such a way that the light that comes through is always warm and pleasantly brightens the interior, though the current season does not require it – the summer is hot and dry. Hanging over the entrance door is a sign saying ‘The Comet’, one which Draco looks at every morning and every night. Sometimes he stops in front of it and ponders whether he is a masochist and inadvertently concludes that in part, he really must be.

‘Eight Galleons,’ he says, passing four cups to a short blond man with brown eyes.

‘Thank you,’ the customer says distractedly, reaching out a chubby hand and placing the correct amount on the money dish, then turning towards the door.

‘You’re welcome,’ Draco mutters, putting away the money and heading for the back.

One waiter stays behind the counter, polishing high glasses, and a few more mingle round the room, serving the customers.

‘Three Potterettos to go!’ cheerfully calls a girl, a young one, if her voice is anything to go by.

‘Nine Galleons,’ the waiter replies, handing the girls their order.

‘Thanks, have a nice day!’ one of them calls and they leave.

The Potteretto was an idea that came from a few of the waiters. Using a few clever spells, they draw the outlines of glasses and the scar on the foam and then sell the coffee at a price higher by one Galleon.

Draco does not protest because it’s not a bad deal, especially as customers order the drink very often, but the memory of Harry Potter, because of whom...

If, looking at the sign, Draco sometimes doubts his own masochistic tendencies, then the fact that he allowed for this coffee to be sold makes him sure of them.

vVv

The coffee shop is quite popular, despite having been opened a mere year ago. Draco cannot complain of a shortage of customers, and some of them are even regulars.

One of those is Harry Potter.

He always comes in with a pile of notes and a long pencil. He likes to sit by the window, in the farthest corner of the room. He spreads out the pieces of paper and starts noting things down, sometimes he even sketches, judging by the way his hands move. From time to time, he glances at the other patrons. But for all this time he has not noticed Draco. He always orders the same type of coffee – black, no sugar, no milk – without even looking at the waiter who takes his order.

When Draco saw Potter for the first time, about two months after the place opened, he froze and stood motionless in the middle of the coffee shop with a tray full of ordered drinks. He got a hold of himself quickly, though, and came back to his duties, taking care not to let the man see him, however. But at that moment Potter wasn’t paying attention to other people, so Draco managed to rush behind the counter and did not leave there until Potter had gone. 

After a while Draco is able to get used to his presence. Even the waiters no longer break into excited whispers over him and don’t line up to take his order. Potter comes in every day, sits in the corner for two or three hours, downing a few cups of coffee in the meantime and leaves, carrying his notes under his arm and twirling the pencil between his fingers with a kind of dexterity Draco never suspected him of. Sometimes he even glances around the room before he exits.

So when Draco sees him at his table, writing something furiously, bent down low over the tabletop, he takes a deep breath and approaches him slowly, fully realising that the conversation they’re about to have will be the first one in over a year.

‘What can I get you?’ he asks impassionately.

‘Black, no milk, no sugar,’ Potter replies, continuing to scribble.

Draco is about to turn to leave, but the man lifts his head and looks at him with astonishment. He slowly sets down the pencil and straightens in his chair, his lips stretching in a small smile.

‘Well, well, well. Who would have thought?’ he asks rhetorically.

Draco half-closes his eyes and resolves not to let himself be provoked. 

‘If that’ll be all, then...’

‘Oh, no, _no_ ,’ Harry says with a smile and draws back the opposite chair with a wave of his hand. ‘That will by no means be all. Sit down.’

‘I can’t just neglect the rest of my customers...’

‘You can,’ he interrupts in a harsh tone and closes his notes before Draco has a chance to catch a peek.

Draco sighs and drops down on the chair seat.

‘What do you want?’

Potter brushes off a lock of hair that has fallen into his eye.

‘Nothing special,’ he says slowly. ‘I would only like to look at you.’ He smiles broadly and Draco can feel a light shiver run down his spine. ‘We haven’t seen each other in quite a while, have we?’

Draco nods, unsure of what Harry is drawing at.

‘So you see... An unusual encounter.’

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks and immediately tells himself off internally for his impulsiveness.

Harry gazes at him, smiling and Draco is feeling very awkward.

‘Your coffee shop... I assume you’re the owner?’ When he sees Draco nod, he continues, ‘Your coffee shop is very inspiring. I usually write music when I’m here.’

Draco raises his eyebrows.

‘You write music?’ he asks.

‘Yes, I like to play around with notes sometimes. It’s quite interesting, actually. To have this power over something... Over music...’ He gets lost in thought for a moment. ‘What about you? What do you do now the war is over? Oh, apart from running a coffee shop, that is.’

Draco shrugs in reply.

‘You haven’t got married?’

‘No,’ Draco drawls. ‘I haven’t exactly been in high demand since I was disinherited.’

‘Disinherited?’ The man looks genuinely surprised. ‘How so?’

Draco snorts.

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. It was for being your spy that I was excluded from my family. You’ve never even...’ - _thanked me for it_ , he wants to say, but he reins himself in. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

Draco gets up and leaves. The coffee Potter has ordered is brought to him by another waiter.

vVv

The sight of Potter entering the coffee shop the next day is not unusual to Draco. But the man has never before approached the counter with a smile, taking a menu in hand and glancing at Draco with a sly glint in his eye.

‘Perhaps it’s time for a change of habits?’ he murmurs and Draco doesn’t know whether he should reply or not. Finally he decides to stay silent, deeming the question a rhetorical one.

‘Hm... a Potteretto?’ Harry asks, laughing. ‘You seriously offer a coffee like that?’

‘It was my waiters who came up with the idea, I didn’t...’ Draco starts. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’

Potter watches him for a while, silent.

‘Nothing matters to you. Yesterday, today. Is there anything that _matters_ at all?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ Draco hisses though clenched teeth. ‘The thing that matters is that you took my family away from me.’

The man sighs and puts down the menu.

‘Can we talk?’

‘No.’ He turns around and switches on the coffee machine to keep his hands occupied. ‘I’m working.’

‘I insist,’ Harry says sharply.

‘Fine, let’s talk,’ Draco drawls and moves from behind the counter to follow the man, who heads for his table.

They sit opposite each other. For a while silence stretches and when Draco is almost ready to stand up and go back to work, cursing Potter internally, suspecting he has lost the willingness to talk, Harry takes a deep breath and starts speaking.

‘I really didn’t know about this, Malfoy...’

He breaks off when he sees Draco clench his teeth, bend almost in half and start to breathe heavily, then set his trembling fists on the table. He’s staring at Draco, terrified, but there is a certain odd glint in his eyes... As if...

‘Don’t address me,’ Draco growls quietly, ‘by the name you took from me.’

‘Why?’ Potter inquires, watching him.

‘Just don’t,’ he replies, clenching his hands even tighter.

For a moment, Harry is silent, but then a look of sheer determination appears on his face and it’s a look Draco knows all to well from their time at school.

‘Tell me why, _Malfoy_ ,’ he drawls, bending over the tabletop.

Before Draco’s eyes close in reaction to the pain, he again sees the strange glint in the green irises. A quiet hiss spills out of his mouth as he tries to work through the waves of pain that flood his body and spread through his veins.

‘Are you in pain?’ Harry asks.

‘You can see I am, so drop it!’ he nearly yells.

‘Why is that, exactly?’ Potter asks a few seconds.

‘Disinheriting spell,’ he replies, knowing he can’t escape it. ‘To remind me that I’m not part of the family anymore.’

Harry nods, watching him through half-closed eyelids and playing with a dark lock of hair distractedly. Draco straightens out, feeling the pain subside slowly. He takes a deep shuddering breath and stares at the tabletop.

‘So you can be hurt by being addressed by your family name,’ Potter says, then goes silent. ‘That’s intriguing,’ he adds after a while.

‘Don’t even think of using it,’ Draco says quietly. ‘You’ve taken my blood away from me, don’t add this, too,’ he nearly begs.

‘Easy, now, we won’t be having any blood...’ he murmurs and sits back again. ‘I have no intention of abusing your name, Ma...’ he smiles delicately, but there is something in his eyes which makes Draco feel scared. ‘Draco.’

As he unclenches his fists, the pain having worn off, Potter is staring straight at him.

‘Why did you tell me this?’ he asks. He tilts his head and adds, ‘You know that in order to destroy you, I don’t need words anymore. All I need is a word.’ 

‘But you won’t,’ Draco says, looking into his eyes and focusing on not letting the hatred he feels show. ‘Will you?’ 

‘Oh,’ Harry whispers, surprised and smiles a little.

vVv

The hot summer days melt into a stream, viscous and insipid. Harry comes up to the counter every day and orders a Potteretto. Draco tries to ignore him, but he knows he can’t put up with the situation forever. He’s still afraid that one day, Potter might make use of the power he has over him.

Most of the people around him know not to address him by his family name, but he has never revealed the true reason for that to anyone. Only Harry is aware of what will happen if he does.

One night he dreams of Potter, standing over him and opening his mouth, starting to utter his family name. 

He’s doing it very slowly, letter after letter seeping into Draco’s dream. When Draco is a breath away from death, the strange glint of fascination appears in the man’s eyes. Before the last sound has the chance to fall, Draco wakes up panting. He looks out of the window and watches the soft wind move the leaves of the nearby trees. 

But in daylight, Harry never uses his family name. When he addresses him directly, he uses his given name. In a way, Draco is getting used to it. Which in no way means he has forgiven the man. The fact that he wasn’t aware of Draco being disinherited does not make him any less guilty. 

‘Draco,’ Harry stops him one day, raising his head from his notes as Draco is passing next to his table, ‘it’s awfully hot in here. Could you open a window?’

‘They don’t open,’ he says and wants to move away, but Potter’s voice keeps him in place. 

‘Let’s go for a walk, then.’

Draco turns towards him and sees him staring with an encouraging smile on his lips. 

‘I have to work.’ He motions towards the counter. ‘I’m not off until late.’ 

‘I’ll wait,’ Potter says and tilts back in the chair, tangling his hands in his hair and tousling it a little.

Draco swallows and nods, though Harry can’t see it anyway, his eyes traveling to the ceiling. As Draco leaves, he thinks he can hear a quiet chuckle.

vVv

It’s getting dark and Potter is still at his table. He’s drinking his sixth coffee, his eyes roaming the room patiently. He’s closed his notes and put his pencil away.

Draco can’t fake working any longer. The last customer has just left and the waiters have been gone for over fifteen minutes. He takes off his apron, puts it away and approaches Potter. 

‘All done?’ Harry asks, granting him a smile. ‘Ready?’ 

He nods and they leave. He locks the door with a key and secures it with a few spells. 

They walk along a dark street and say nothing. Draco is feeling a little awkward, but he’s trying not to show it. Finally Potter breaks the silence. 

‘What sort of coffee is your favourite?’ 

Draco frowns, considering. 

‘Actually, I don’t like coffee at all,’ he replies after a beat. 

‘Really?’ Potter stops, forcing Draco to do the same and standing in front of him. ‘So why did you open a coffee shop?’

‘I had been disinherited and didn’t have a source of income,’ he says firmly, pursing his lips. Potter can laugh all he wants, but...

‘I know. I meant, why a _coffee shop_. Why not a wine bar?’ He raises his hand and flicks a blond lock of hair off Draco’s forehead. Draco trembles, but tries not to jerk away. ‘Or a theatre?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replies, shrugging.

Potter smiles a little and drops his hand.

‘Where did the name come from?’

Draco clenches his jaw and looks at Potter firmly.

‘You have no right to ask that,’ he barks and turns away, retreating into the shadows.

vVv

‘Let’s talk,’ Potter says the next day, grabbing Draco’s hand as he’s passing his table. 

‘What about?’ he asks calmly, stopping but not looking at Harry.

Potter stands up, putting away his pencil and moves to stand in front of Draco. He gazes into his eyes and raises his hand, moving it towards Draco’s fringe. As he’s about to touch it, Draco pulls away, not letting him.

‘I think we could come up with a few things,’ he replies. He steps closer and whispers slowly, ‘Malfoy.’

Draco drops his tray, which is fortunately empty, and clenches his fists, inhaling through his nose. Harry still does not pull away, standing close to him, huffing warm breaths on his cheek.

‘Fuck, Potter,’ he growls through clenched teeth.

Harry inhales sharply, as if he’s been burned.

‘Not that harsh, Draco,’ he says. ‘That’s a very ugly word, don’t you think?’

‘What the fuck are you on ab...’ he starts, but Potter cuts him off.

‘I said, not that harsh. You’ll either stop cursing yourself or I’ll make you keep quiet.’

Draco scoffs and straightens our a bit, as the pain has dulled, and Harry’s lips stretch in a small smile. 

‘I think you know exactly what I’m on about,’ he whispers, shifting closer. ‘I must only say your family name again and you’ll clench your teeth in pain and won’t be able to utter another word.’

‘I hate you,’ Draco says, his tone thick.

Potter laughs quietly.

‘That can always be changed,’ he says and winks. He moves away, picks up his notes and pencil and leaves. 

vVv

Time passes slowly. The summer draws to a close, the days are getting chillier, but at noon the sun still burns bright, spreading a pleasant warmth. Potter still comes in every day, but he reverts to ordering a black coffee, no milk, no sugar. He sits at his table, arranges his notes in front of him, but he never even glances at them. He keeps staring at Draco, who bustles around the room, stands behind the counter or deals with paperwork. Potter props his elbows on the tabletop, his chin on his folded hands, his eyes trailing Draco with a smile.

Draco feels awkward about this. He never approaches Potter’s table, sending one of the waiters over instead. He tries to hide in the back as often as he can, unwilling to feel Potter’s piercing gaze on his back. He knows that even if Potter were to murmur ‘Malfoy, Malfoy’ under his breath again and again while just sitting there, Draco would be fine, because in order for the pain to be triggered, he has to be addressed directly. So he avoids any contact with the man as much as he can, afraid that Potter will hurt him again. 

One day he sees Harry gesture for one of the waiters and say something to him, motioning towards the counter. Draco hides in the back, though he knows it’s pointless. 

If Potter has requested to see the owner, he’ll have to go.

‘Boss, Mister Potter wants to see you. He says he has some remarks,’ the waiter says as he enters the room where Draco is.

He sighs gently but nods, then leaves the back and heads towards Harry.

Who is already waiting for him with a friendly smile.

‘You thought you’d run away from me?’ he asks cheerfully.

Draco stands in front of him and straightens his apron.

‘What do you want?’ 

‘It’s hot again,’ Harry sighs, weaving his hand through his hair. 

‘I told you, the windows don’t open,’ Draco states and wants to turn to leave, but Potter’s voice stops him.

‘But last time we did come up with a solution to this, didn’t we, Draco?’

He bites down on his lower lip, searching for a reply.

‘Fine,’ he grits out. ‘Wait here until I finish work.’ 

He steps away quickly, so he can’t see the wide smile that spreads on Harry’s face as he follows Draco with his gaze. 

vVv

He locks the door and casts the warding spells. He inhales slowly and turns, meeting Potter’s curious gaze. 

‘Why do you lock the door? You’ve got charms.’ 

‘Force of habit,’ he mutters vaguely and moves forward, stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

Harry stays in place for a moment, mulling over the words, but follows him after a while.

‘Habit?’ he inquires.

‘In the Manor...’ Draco starts and falls silent. He continues after a beat. ‘The Manor was protected with spells all around, but when we went out, we would always lock it with a key. It’s tradition, from ages ago.’ He shrugs.

‘That’s beautiful,’ Potter comments quietly, walking by his side.

Draco looks at him askance, unsure of whether he’s being made fun of, but the look on Potter’s face doesn’t indicate that.

‘Are you serious or are you mocking me?’ he asks nevertheless.

‘Completely serious,’ Harry looks at him. ‘It’s a truly beautiful tradition.’

They stop and stare at each other. Finally Draco breaks the silence.

‘You deprived me of it.’

Potter’s eyes grow hard instantly and he moves in closer, grabbing Draco by the collar.

‘I had no idea you have been disinherited. I didn’t even know there’s a curse to legally expel someone from a family,’ he says quietly, his lips inches away from Draco’s.

‘It’s very old,’ Draco starts slowly, looking into Potter’s eyes, terrified. ‘It’s ancient magic, forgotten through the ages. Lucius liked dragging such curiosities back out. You must remember how many spells I told you about during the war and you hadn’t had the faintest idea such curses even existed.’

Harry keeps watching Draco, moving even closer. 

‘Oh, I remember that perfectly,’ he murmurs.

They look at each other for a while longer until Potter finally releases him and pulls away. 

‘Why do you keep saying it’s my fault?’ he asks. ‘I didn’t make you cross over to our side, you made that decision on your own.’

‘Because if I hadn’t crossed over to your side,’ Draco begins in a trembling voice, moving closer to the man, ‘I wouldn’t have been disinherited. I wouldn’t have lost the Manor and I wouldn’t have to conceal my suffering every time someone addresses me by my family name.’

‘This still does not explain...’ Harry says, but Draco interrupts him, bringing his face to Potter’s.

‘Shut up! It’s all your fault! If it wasn’t for you, there wouldn’t have been a war and I wouldn’t have had to choose sides!’

‘You shut up, Malfoy!’ Potter shouts and kisses him abruptly, stifling the soft moans that escape Draco’s mouth. He flings him against the nearest wall and pushes a knee between his thighs. Draco raises his fists, clenched because of the pain and swings them against Potter’s chest, unseeing, trying to push him away. ‘You can’t accuse me of being born!’ Harry growls, pulling away, but a moment later he’s kissing Draco again, pressing him against the wall. When he feels Draco’s body relax as the pain subsides, he pulls back and drawls slowly, ‘Malfoy,’ and kisses him again.

‘Oh, fuck’s sake, Potter,’ Draco moans through clenched teeth, throwing his head back and trying to push Harry away, but he won’t let him, squashing his body against the wall even more.

‘Shut up,’ he growls, weaving his hands into Draco’s hair and keeping his face still.

‘Get away from me!’ Draco yells, closing his eyes and struggling to push him away, but failing because of the paralyzing pain.

‘Do you really want that?’ Potter asks, breathing heavily and brushing his lips over Draco’s, but still holding him in a tight grip. ‘Do you really want me to get away and go?’

‘Yes, you psycho,’ he manages to choke out.

Harry pulls away and takes a slim cigarette out of his pocket. He lights it by snapping his fingers and still gazing at Draco, puts the cigarette into his mouth, then turns and goes away.

‘No,’ Draco whispers, sliding down the wall. ‘Come back, you sick arse. You’ll kill me otherwise,’ he says, terrified, and tucks his head between his knees.

If Harry can hear him, he doesn’t turn back and he keeps walking until he vanishes into the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Exheredeo te_ \- Latin for: ‘I disinherit you’
> 
> Read about sungrazing comets: <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sungrazing_comet>


	2. Chapter 2

The sun is setting as Potter walks into the coffee shop. He doesn’t look around like he usually has for the last couple of days, but walks straight to his table. He sits down, sets down his papers, picks up his pencil and starts noting something down. When a waiter approaches, he lifts his head and watches him for a moment in silence. Finally he closes his notes and says, ‘I’d like to speak to the boss.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ the waiter replies, glancing nervously towards the counter. ‘The boss is ill and he’s not in. What is this about? If there is an issue, perhaps I could...’

‘No,’ Potter cuts in. ‘I have no issue with _you_. I would like to speak to your boss, who is currently sitting in the back, pretending to be going over paperwork.’

The waiter opens his mouth to speak, but Potter continues. 

‘It’s very important. I don’t know what he told you, but I am here on behalf of the Ministry, the Department of Magical Stock Companies, to be exact. I have to speak to the owner.’ 

‘I’ll get him,’ the waiter says quietly and turns, heading towards the counter. 

Harry Potter smiles and tilts back in his chair, tangling his fingers in his hair. 

vVv

‘Why are you scaring my waiters?’ Draco asks quietly, standing next to Harry’s table but not looking into his eyes. ‘Now they’re under the impression that you’ve discovered some inaccuracies in the paperwork and they’re going to lose their jobs.’ 

‘You’ll let them know later that it’s a regular check-up,’ Potter states cheerfully.

‘Hm...’ Draco murmurs vaguely, but stays in place. 

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ 

Draco drops into the chair opposite Potter and stares at his own hands, folded on the tabletop. He waits for the moment when Harry decides to use his power over him and punish him for yesterday’s behaviour. 

‘Why are you quiet?’ Potter asks instead.

‘Because I have nothing to say,’ he replies softly.

Harry starts chuckling. He combs his fingers through his dark locks and watches Draco, who finally lifts his head to look at him. He sees the lips, crooked into a smile, the tangled hair and the shiny eyes behind the glasses. He remembers yesterday’s kiss against the wall and trembles uncontrollably, his eyes falling to his hands again.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Harry suddenly asks.

Draco would like to lie. He would like to say he’s thinking about the sunset, about the last customers who are now leaving, about his stained apron. But he knows what Potter would do if he discovered Draco wasn’t telling the truth. So he looks up again and says, ‘You.’ 

Harry freezes. He pulls his hands out of his hair and sets his elbows on the table, bringing his face to Draco’s. 

‘It’s very hot,’ he murmurs, and Draco half-closes his eyes and sighs gently.

vVv

The lock clicks when Draco turns the key. After a moment he whispers the warding spells and turns back to face Potter, who is staring at him seriously. 

They move in silence. They walk slowly, gazing into the darkness spreading around them. 

When the silence becomes unbearable, they reach the spot where the day before... 

Harry grabs Draco’s shoulders lightly, pulls him in and kisses him gently. Draco would like to push him away, but he knows the consequences that would bring. And so he returns the kiss shyly, feeling Potter’s soft lips on his own and inhaling his bitter smell. Potter shifts closer and tangles his fingers in Draco’s hair. He gently pushes Draco towards the wall and deepens the caress. When Draco feels confident enough to reach out towards his face and cradle it in his hands, Potter pulls his lips away and holds Draco’s hands still, not allowing the contact.

Draco moans unintentionally, but closes his eyes, feeling Harry’s warm breath on his lips. The man moves closer and brings their foreheads together, starting to nip at Draco’s lips with his own.

‘You are truly beautiful,’ he whispers softly.

He pulls back and retreats into the darkness, lighting a slim cigarette with a snap of his fingers.

vVv

For the next few days, Potter comes into the coffee shop at a regular time and sits at his table. But he never sets his notes out in front of him, he just starts playing with his pencil, turning it between his fingers. His eyes trail Draco, who stands behind the counter, serving the customers who get coffee to go. Finally one day he gestures for one of the employees and says something to him.

‘Boss, Mister Potter wants something of you to do with the check-up again,’ the waiter says as he approaches the counter. 

Draco sighs quietly, runs his hand through his hair and moves across the room towards Harry, who is waiting for him with a smile. 

‘Yes?’ he says after a moment of hesitation, unsure of how to greet him.

‘I’ve been wondering,’ the man starts softly, gesturing to the opposite chair and Draco sits down, ‘if perhaps you’d fancy taking a walk tonight after work.’

Draco breathes in, but he has no idea what to say. Finally he resigns himself to a quiet ‘What for?’

‘I’d like to take you to this one place,’ Harry replies with a smile, and then adds, ‘It’s going to rain in the evening.’

‘Oh,’ Draco says, not knowing how to react to the sudden change of subject. ‘Well, then, I guess it’s all right. I mean, OK. I’ll go for a walk with you,’ he falters.

‘Fantastic.’ Potter sends him a wide grin.

vVv

‘Tell me something unusual about yourself,’ Harry says, walking next to Draco in the dark. 

‘Nothing comes to my mind,’ he replies, shrugging.

‘Come on, tell me something no one knows! A childhood story or something.’

‘What for?’ Draco asks suspiciously, glancing at him.

‘Because I want you to,’ Potter replies lightly, halting and making Draco stop, too.

‘When I was nine, Lucius got me a cat. It had grey fur and it was very fat.’

‘What happened to it?’

‘I don’t know,’ he shrugs. ‘When I came back to the Manor the summer after first year, it was gone.’

‘Seems like a sad story,’ Harry mutters, moving forward.

Draco scoffs. 

‘No, it’s not. I didn’t like it. It used to sleep all day long.’ 

‘At least you had something of your own.’

‘And you? Never had a pet?’ Draco asks hesitantly, glancing at him askance.

‘No,’ Potter replies and that’s when it starts raining. 

Harry grabs Draco’s hand and pulls him, running for one of the nearby buildings. When they enter the staircase, both soaked through, Potter immediately pushes him against a wall and kisses him deeply. Draco returns the kiss, wrapping his arms around Potter’s neck and realizing that for those last few days when Harry only looked at him in the coffee shop, Draco has missed the warmth of his body. After a while Potter pulls back and takes him by the hand again, dragging him up the stairs.

‘I’ve never had a cat, but now I have music and art,’ he says.

Draco sees him wave his hand in front of a door on the first floor, probably removing the warding spells and reach for the handle to open it. He grabs Draco’s hand and pulls him again and when they’re both inside, he closes the door. He puts the wards back up and turns, starting to kiss Draco again. 

Draco combs a hand through his hair and returns the kiss. When he feels Harry press him against a wall, he leans against it and pushes his hips out. Potter brings their drenched chests together and tilts Draco’s head back to allow himself better access to his neck and starts nipping it softly, which drags quiet moans out of Draco. 

‘Oh, fuck, Potter,’ Draco murmurs and immediately tenses as he feels Harry freeze and lift his clouded eyes to him.

‘You’re not allowed to curse, understand?’ he snaps, though the tone of his voice is slightly dazed. ‘You’re too much of a pretty boy to say such things,’ he adds and kissed him again.

Draco drops his hands lower and sets his palms on Harry’s shoulders. He keeps kissing him, but with less enthusiasm, feeling terrified. The whole time he’s aware of the power Potter has over him. He could kill if he only wanted to. One word is all it takes to smash Draco like a doll in a toy shop window.

Harry pushes his hand under Draco’s shirt and starts running his palm over the protruding ribs. Draco moans quietly and holds him. After a moment Potter draws back, pulls his shirt over his head without even unbuttoning it and throws it somewhere to the side. 

Draco knows where all of this is going. He knows that Potter, who is now quickly removing Draco’s own clothes, will be fucking him in a few minutes’ time and he knows that they are probably both going to enjoy it. He’s never tried to deny who he is, though he has never had a stable boyfriend. He feels Harry pulling him towards a living room or some other place while unbuttoning his trousers with deft fingers, still kissing him. But Draco also knows what Potter is capable of and what kind of power the man holds over him. And maybe it’s sick and maybe it’s more proof of his masochism, but he realizes that the tinge of fear caused by the awareness of this power excites him and makes him want to feel _more, stronger, harder_. More mouth, stronger pressure and harder moves. For just a moment, he would like to forget that Potter’s the one who deprived him of his family. So when Potter presses him against the wall and makes their naked and still wet chests touch, Draco starts moaning straight into his mouth and grinding against him suggestively, lifting his right leg and wrapping it around the man’s thighs.

Entangled in each other, their wet clothes and the bitter smell that fills the room, they head for the low bed covered with rumpled sheets. Potter sets Draco down gently, sitting on his hips, but keeps kissing him deeply and running his fingertips over Draco’s ribs. 

He rids them of the rest of their clothes non-verbally, with only a small gesture of his hand, and then they are both naked. Draco lifts his hips, striving for more contact between the two bodies and he gets it as Harry finally drops onto him with his full weight and moves his lips to Draco’s neck, starting to nip gently and kiss. Draco wraps his hands around Harry’s neck and shuts his eyes tighter, tilting his head.

They hear the rain outside the window grow heavier and turn into a deluge. The raindrops hit the tin drainpipes and the windows, thudding loudly. With a wave of his hand, Harry summons a bottle of lubricant and it shoots out of the ebony cupboard next to the... easel?... but Draco doesn’t have time to dwell on that because he can feel Potter’s slick fingers stretch and prepare him and he opens his thighs wider. 

The moment Harry enters him coincides with the first strike of lightning outside the window. For a second, the dark room is flooded with blinding light and Draco looks up at the other man. The glare illuminates Potter’s face, hangs over his parted lips, moves towards his forehead, where the scar becomes even more prominent in the white light, standing out against the background of his face. The light spreads across his entire body and when Harry blinks, for a moment Draco follows the shadows of his eyelashes as they move down Harry’s cheeks. He can’t avert his gaze from those green eyes, the pupils so constricted they’re barely visible, though he realizes that in this second the body of the man on top of him seems milky white, flawless, perfect and at the same time porcelain-like and fragile.

The second passes and the room is immersed in darkness again. Draco exhales slowly and the hiss he lets out melts with the rustling of the rain. Harry doesn’t move one inch and still fills him. For a few seconds, Draco focuses on Potter’s chest, which no longer appears perfect. Without the bright light, it seems darker and Draco notices a thin diagonal scar running from navel to rib on his left side. When the immobility becomes unbearable and he wishes for Harry to finally _move_ inside him, another lightning suddenly strikes and Potter thrusts in violently, closing his eyes and Draco can follow the shadow of his eyelashes moving again. But he can’t focus on it, the sudden push making him feel as if he’s being filled beyond his limits. He throws his head back and lets out a guttural sound.

The rain still thuds against the window panes. Darkness penetrates the room, broken only by the glare of lightning and Harry’s simultaneous thrusts. Completion comes to them both at the same time, drowning the room in blinding whiteness. Outside the window, thunder roars again and again. 

vVv

The rays of the rising sun illuminate the bodies of the two men. They climb lazily across their chests, shoulders, chins, noses and finally reach the opening eyes of one of them. Draco lifts his head and looks at the man lying next to him. He disentangles himself from the arms wrapped around his own and stretches lazily, staring at the pale ceiling. He moves his eyes around the room and notices an old black piano next to the door. Its colour contrasts with the white walls and floor, but Draco notices that the room is not all that bright. The wall behind the instrument has been haphazardly splattered with black paint and the drips reach behind the top, giving the impression that the piano has slid down the wall, leaving behind a dark trail. When he looks at the light floorboards, he sees stains of the same substance spattered at the foot of the instrument, as if it was oozing, bleeding in black on the floor.

Three quarters of the opposite wall are covered by a heavy black curtain which stretches from the ceiling down to the very floor, leaving bare only a section of the white surface, where a window in an ebony frame is placed. There is a half-filled silver ashtray on the wide window sill. 

He looks to his left and in front of the curtain he sees an easel, made of dark wood and covered with a dirty cloth. When his eyes travel farther, he notices that on the stretch of the wall between the piano and the curtain there is a small painting in hues of blue and next to it, closer to the corner by the curtain, black shelves poking out of the wall and strewn with all kinds of books. 

‘Do you like it?’ Harry asks in a sleepy tone, combing his hands through his hair.

‘Very... original,’ Draco states, not looking at him. After a beat of awkward silence, he asks, ‘What is it?’

‘‘Fishing Boats at Sea’ by Monet.’

Draco nods and swallows. He tries to get up, but warm hands keep him in place.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Potter whispers, chuckling quietly and starts to gently nip at his neck. 

‘I must get to work,’ he replies honestly.

‘If you must...’ Harry murmurs and moves away from him. He props himself up on his elbows and watches Draco get up and collect his strewn-around clothes. ‘Then off you go, pretty boy.’

Draco freezes momentarily, upon hearing the phrase, but then resumes slowly getting dressed. When he’s fully clothed, he turns towards Harry and stands still, unsure of what to say. Finally he decides to keep his silence and heads for the door, but Potter’s voice stops him.

‘I’ll drop by the Comet later, all right?’

Draco turns to see a weak smile appear on Harry’s lips. He nods in reply, struggling to stop his own mouth from trembling as it wants to stretch a little, too, and he leaves.

vVv

‘Two Potterettos to go,’ says a tall pimply teenage boy. 

‘Six Galleons.’ Draco hands the cups to the customer and smiles a little. ‘Come back again.’

The boy gives him a reluctant look and snorts softly.

‘Is there a problem?’ quietly asks Harry, having materialized out of nowhere to stand behind the boy. 

‘Erm, no, Mister Potter, everything’s all right. I, erm...’ the customer falters, turning and sending a frightened look towards the smiling Potter. ‘Could I have an autograph?’ he blurts out abruptly.

‘You will have to excuse me, I am a little busy,’ Harry replies.

‘Oh... Well, yes. I’ll be going, then. Thank you.’ He throws a few coins on the tray and leaves, looking back over his shoulder.

‘You came,’ Draco says and feels his lips stretch in a wide grin. He wants to stop himself, but he can’t.

‘I did promise,’ Potter bends over the counter, laying his forearms down and splaying his palms flat. ‘So here I am.’

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Draco asks after a moment of silent staring.

‘Black, no milk, no sugar.’

He turns to make the coffee and Harry sits on one of the stools at the counter, looking around the room. The sunshine that enters through the big windows is warm and brightens the room pleasantly thanks to the multiple charms that are set up but still, one can sense the inevitable approach of autumn. 

The street is speckled with puddles from yesterday’s storm and the first fallen leaves lie in the water here and there. Draco hands Harry the order. They stare at each other for a while until finally Potter laughs under his breath and drops his eyes, beginning to stir his coffee. Draco feels unsteady, not knowing what has made Harry laugh, but a moment later the man looks up at him again, lifting his cup and taking a sip.

‘Have you got any plans this evening? I’d like to take you somewhere,’ he says.

‘No, I haven’t,’ Draco replies and sets out to polish the high glasses, at a loss of something to occupy his hands. ‘Where to this time?’

Potter grins in reply. 

‘It’s a surprise,’ he whispers and winks. 

vVv

‘The National Gallery?’ Draco asks incredulously, looking at the building in front of them.

‘Mhm. I like to come here sometimes.’

They scurry through the long corridors and reach the main room. Harry immediately approaches a painting, one in shades of yellow. 

‘Impressionism...’ he murmurs, staring at the piece. ‘The meaning of my life, just alongside Romanticism.’

They’re silent for a long while. Finally Potter nods towards the painting.

‘’Rain, Steam and Speed’ by Turner. Not the most brilliant painter, but there is something about him.’

Draco takes a step forward and stops inches behind Harry, able to take in both him and the painting he’s gazing at. 

‘But no one beats Friedrich,’ Potter suddenly picks up, glancing over his shoulder at Draco, but soon returning his attention to the painting. ‘Every time I see ‘Abbey in an Oak Forest’ or ‘Graveyard under Snow’, I marvel at his genius.’ 

Silence stretches. Harry raises his hand as if he wanted to touch Turner’s painting, but stops just a breath away.

‘It’s the same landscape, actually,’ he continues as if he never broke off. ‘Bare trees, an old structure, people walking towards it. But you know what?’ he asks, turning towards Draco. ‘I’ve never encountered this kind of contrast. These paintings are at the same time identical and completely different. I’m sure no one else would be capable of painting something like that. Merlin knows how he did.’

They gaze at each other for a few seconds and then Potter raises his hand towards Draco’s cheek like he did a moment before with the painting. This time he doesn’t stop, however, but brings it to Draco’s skin and brushes his thumb against the cheekbone.

‘I dream of meeting him,’ he says quietly. After a few seconds he takes back his hand and averts his eyes. ‘But he’s long dead. Also, he was German, so I wouldn’t have a good chance at a discussion.’ He drops his head and looks at his feet. ‘He created during the Romantic Era. Did you know the name of Durmstrang comes from the name of this period in German? Sturm und Drang, which stands for Storm and Drive.'

He can’t see Draco nod. He sticks his hands in his pockets and turns his head to the side.

‘I wish I had been born back then,’ he says nearly pitifully and after a moment of silence looks back to Draco and adds, ‘Malfoy.’ 

When Draco bends in half and holds back the scream, Potter passes him without a word and leaves the gallery.

vVv

The following day Harry doesn’t come to the coffee shop. Draco can’t decide whether to feel happy or worried. In a way, he’s relieved, as the relationship between them is quickly becoming more and more dangerous for him and it feels increasingly sadomasochistic. He never knows when Potter will make use of the power he has over him, which he was granted by Draco himself. He feels like a doll or a marionette in a theatre show with Harry as the animator, holding the strings that Draco handed to him. Their other end is attached to Draco’s veins, so Potter can pull on them whenever he wishes and cause him pain, which he appears to like to inflict.

A part of Draco is terrified by the fact that he could lose his life at any moment. But another part of him longs for this kind of power and domination, just like a marionette longs for the animator to pull on its strings and move it across the stage. He doesn’t know if it’s a symptom of the masochism he has long suspected himself of or a symptom of plain and simple insanity, but he wants it. He wants Harry and he wants to be fully under his control. 

So when in the evening he locks the door, casts the warding spells, turns around and in the shadows behind him sees Potter gazing at him with serious eyes – he smiles despite himself and flings his arms over Potter’s neck and kisses him gently.

They arrive at the flat later than usual, having walked slowly among the trees that stand tall around the buildings. When they enter the living room, Draco’s eyes fall to the black piano next to the wall.

‘Play something for me,’ he requests softly.

Harry smiles a little and comes up to the instrument. He opens the fall and caresses the keys with his fingers, but doesn’t press.

‘Mozart, Beethoven?’ he asks.

Draco watches him for a moment before replying.

‘Potter,’ he says. ‘Play me something of your own.’

Harry is silent for a few seconds, standing still, but finally approaches the ebony cupboard next to the easel, pulls out a drawer and takes out the same pile of notes Draco has seen him with every day at the coffee shop. He returns to the piano, pulls out a black stool from under it and sits down. He sets up the pieces of paper, sets his fingers on the keys and presses one of them. The sound that reverberates around the room is very low and vibrates softly, seeping into Draco’s mind. Potter lifts his eyes from the piano and looks up at him. When he sees Draco looking at him expectantly, he glances back at the keyboard. And then he starts to play.

Draco drowns in a wave of music. He thinks he must be dreaming because it seems impossible for anyone to play so flawlessly. Harry’s fingers dart across the keyboard at an astounding pace and some of the keys rise and fall on their own, without him touching them at all. He must be using magic, which fuses with the sounds and harmonizes with them completely, creating a seamless entity, now permeating the entire room and Draco’s whole body.

Potter’s eyes are closed, his head twitches rhythmically as he presses the keys and the pages, where hundreds of notes adorn staves, turn on their own on the rack, one after another, rustling quietly, though the sound is barely audible among the tones from the piano. Draco doesn’t understand why he needs them since he doesn’t look at them at all, but it seems appropriate, it seems _proper_ and he couldn’t imagine them not being there. The white pages stand in stark contrast to the blackness of the varnished wood and Harry’s hands stand out against its dark background when he lifts them so high it seems as if he has to tear them away from the instrument by force.

He concentrates on the low sounds, letting the higher notes sneak in only here and there to break the heavy weight of the deep tones. His hands never cease the chase, he keeps picking up speed, sinking into the music and drowning in it deeper and deeper. Draco feels as if Potter was grabbing his hand and dragging him among the sounds, letting him swim alongside himself. Music surrounds him and floods his whole body, bursting in through his mouth, his nose, his ears, and when Draco feels like he is running out of air – he is so low below the surface, he is going to drown – Harry stops playing.

The silence is unnatural.

It’s only after a few seconds that Potter opens his eyes and looks at him. He stands up, grabs Draco’s hand and places it on the keys. Draco makes a fist, somehow scared that the sounds that come from under his fingers might defile the music he just listened to. 

Harry smiles and places his hands on Draco’s shoulders, turning him back to the piano. He pushes him, making Draco’s buttocks hit the keyboard. The instrument lets out a low sound and Draco half-closes his eyes. He hears Potter chuckle quietly and feels hands tangle into his hair. Harry kisses him gently, pressing him more firmly against the piano, which sounds even lower than before. One snap of his fingers and they are both naked. Draco feels Potter’s hard length pressing against his own. He moans softly and lets himself be seated on the keyboard. A frighteningly deep sound echoes around the room.

He never thought sex could have a sound but the low tones of the old piano, resonating at a quickening pace seem to him the perfect reflection of physical intimacy.

vVv

‘When I was a child, I rarely saw the sky at night,’ Harry says quietly as they lie next to each other on the bed and watch the black starry firmament through the wide open window. ‘I only happened to see stars a few times. It wasn’t until I had moved to the room upstairs that I could stargaze as much as I wanted.’ 

He stops for a moment and Draco inhales the bitter scent spread by the autumn wind.

Harry takes the last drag of the slim cigarette he’s holding, snaps his fingers and the cigarette vanishes.

‘I would look up at them every night, yearning to touch them. To rise up in the air and fly so far as to leave Earth behind and not know which way to go to return. To know that no compass and no wand could help me. That the nearest other person is not a few hundred, but a few hundred billion miles away and that I am alone. Completely alone.’

He raises his hand and draws winding lines in the air with his index finger. Draco shifts closer to him and looks in the same direction. Harry’s hand charts irregular shapes, follows the stars in the air and links them with invisible threads.

‘Being alone, being lonely on Earth is impossible, really,’ he speaks so quietly that the words can’t possibly be directed at Draco. So he doesn’t respond, still gazing at the hand raised against the background of the sky.

‘I’d see so many celestial bodies,’ Harry continues after a moment, dropping his hand, ‘but none of them would be our planet.’

They’re both silent for a long while.

‘I once told someone about this. He claimed that getting lost in space would be terrifying.’ He turns his head towards Draco and looks into his eyes. ‘What do you think about this?’

Draco brushes off a few locks from Harry’s forehead and looks up at the starry sky.

‘I think drowning in an ocean of stars is a beautiful death,’ he murmurs.


	3. Chapter 3

They spend the increasingly cold nights together. Draco knows almost the entire layout of Potter’s flat. 

The walls in the narrow corridor are tough and cold, but he likes being pressed against them. The modest table in the small kitchen is always polished to shine and he loves how his naked body feels sliding across it. The long white candles that Harry often lights and sets up around the flat in a layout meaningful only to himself smell bitter and fresh at the same time, which makes Draco think of faraway lands where there is no magic, no war and no disinheritance.

Where there are only Harry and he.

The can of black paint which Potter used to splatter the white wall in the bedroom is standing next to the high easel covered with the dirty cloth. Potter never lets him peek under the fabric to look at the painting, although Draco has tried several times. 

Harry is lying in bed among the rumpled sheets. In his left hand he’s holding a slim cigarette, lit with a snap of his fingers. He’s staring at the ceiling. Draco is resting next to him, on his stomach, looking at the black-framed window. The pale morning light that seeps in illuminates a silver candlestick standing on the window sill, the candle burnt almost entirely through, its flame dying down. Grey smoke rises above it and vanishes, blown away by the wind that whirls into the room. They have just woken up and they are lying in silence. 

Finally Draco gets up quietly and wraps a sheet around himself haphazardly. Potter watches him, inhaling the cigarette smoke deep into his lungs. He weaves one hand into his hair and lifts up on an elbow, raising his head. Draco approaches the easel slowly, looking at his pale feet that melt with the white floorboards and stops in front of the painting. When he can’t hear a word of protest, he reaches out towards the cloth, but before he has a chance to touch it, Harry speaks quietly. 

‘Don’t.’

His voice is just above a whisper and hoarse in a way that is characteristic of morning and Draco closes his eyes, relishing the sound. After a moment, however, he turns around and looks at Harry. The diagonal scar on his chest is clearly visible in the grey light.

‘Why?’ he asks in a similar tone.

Potter doesn’t reply. He puts off the cigarette, crushing it on the floor and makes it vanish with a wave of his hand. The last puffs of smoke dissolve into the air. He beckons at him to come closer, which Draco does. When he falls onto the bed, so low it could well be just a bare mattress, Harry immediately gives him a soft kiss and Draco can taste the tinge of the cigarette.

They move gracefully and harmoniously. Draco obediently spreads his thighs and sighs quietly when Potter’s first finger enters him as deep as possible. The grey dawn seeps into the room slowly and illuminates the silver candlesticks on the window sills, bringing out their subtle shine. Draco thinks there is nothing in the world more beautiful than this very moment. He’s ready to tip over the edge, his legs spread, his eyes closed, Harry moving inside him, deep and intense, when he hears one word.

‘Malfoy,’ Potter says softly, uttering the name faintly and almost reverently, as if he wanted to return to Draco the nobility that was taken from him by Lucius.

Excruciating pain spreads through Draco’s body and blends with overwhelming pleasure. As he comes violently, the sound of the word enfolds him and he feels like alongside his sperm, his entire blood supply spills out of him in a series of angry gushes. 

_Truly, nothing can be more beautiful than this very moment_ , he thinks right before he passes out. 

vVv

‘You are not allowed,’ Harry starts in a nearly trembling voice as he sees Draco come to, ‘to touch the easel or anything else to do with the art I create without permission. You are not allowed, do you understand?’ 

Draco nods, terrified, but also deeply fascinated. Potter is standing by the window, his back turned, a cigarette between the fingers of his left hand. His naked body is bright in the late morning light that slides down his shoulders and thighs.

‘You are also not allowed to curse,’ he adds, crushing the cigarette in the base of a silver candlestick and leaving the butt there. ‘Your face is much too pretty for that,’ he says on the exhale.

Draco watches Harry approach the easel, turning his back. He inhales and glides his hand along the frame. With a single gesture, he summons another cigarette, which shoots out of an embellished cigarette case on the cupboard next to the easel and darts towards his mouth. He lights it with a snap of his fingers and takes a drag.

‘When I was maybe five or six,’ he starts and sounds as if he was talking to himself, taking the cigarette from between his lips and staring somewhere ahead, ‘my aunt and uncle bought Dudley a small blackboard, one which came with an easel and could be stood anywhere.

‘It also came with a few sticks of white chalk. My cousin wasn’t talented in the least and only doodled on it mindlessly, but one day aunt Petunia sat in front of it cross-legged, placed Dudley in the hollow of her lap and started drawing. She drew a crescent moon and a few stars around it. But not like six lines crossing,’ Harry glances at him over his shoulder, taking a drag of the cigarette. ‘They were real five-pointed stars. When she’d finished, she put the chalk aside and started smudging the contours with her fingers.’ Harry drops his head. After a moment, he speaks somewhat hoarsely. ‘Fuck. It was the most beautiful impressionist painting I’ve ever seen.’ 

After a few seconds of silent stillness, he flicks the ash from the end of the cigarette and puts it back into his mouth, inhaling deeply. 

‘Did your cousin like it, too?’ Draco asks carefully.

Potter barks out a resigned laugh, lifting his head.

‘A few hours later he scribbled over it and destroyed it.’

He turns around, comes over to Draco, kneels on the bed and tucks him in more tightly.

‘You have to forgive me for getting angry and making you faint.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Draco says, extending his arms towards Harry.

‘I didn’t mean for it to happen,’ Potter replies.

‘Maybe I did?’

The question hangs between them as they stare at each other, both equally shocked by the words.

‘You keep me guessing, Draco,’ Harry whispers and kisses him softly.

vVv

When Draco closes the door of Potter’s flat, leaving him sleeping behind, he heads for the path winding among the blocks of flats and thinks of the previous night. If he needed final proof of his masochism, then the words ‘Maybe I did?’ are certainly it.

He knows he has to stop. He’s just not sure he’s capable.

vVv

He can feel Harry’s eyes on his back. He turns on the coffee machine and realises his hands are shaking.

The day is bright but chilly and so the coffee shop is filled with more customers wanting to get warm with the help of a cup of coffee. He can hear Potter breathing and does his best not to turn around. He hasn’t the faintest idea what he’d do. Kiss him? Look at him? Say something?

The brown liquid flows into the cup and for a moment, the surface foams up with a thick layer of _crema_ *. Finally, Draco turns around and hands the order to the client without looking at Harry. Harry props his chin on his hands, folded on the counter-top and watches Draco, raising his eyebrows and smirking.

‘What time do you finish?’ he asks quietly.

‘Same as usual,’ Draco replies, breathing in and trembling slightly. ‘But I can’t meet you today. I’ve got other plans.’

He waits for the angry outburst. Or the repetitive string of the word ‘Malfoy’ Harry is going to flood him with. Somewhere inside – completely against himself – he even feels he’d enjoy that. But nothing like that happens. Potter just nods, stands up and heads for his table. He sits down, pulls out some sheets of paper and starts noting something down.

Draco goes to the back, sits by the wall and breathes heavily for a few minutes.

vVv

He locks the door, wards it and turns. In front of him stands Harry, his face serious.

‘You won’t run from me that easily, boy,’ he says in a cold voice and traps him against the door’s pane of glass. Their noses brush and Draco can see the man’s pupils constrict and dilate. Finally Potter kisses him, pressing in harder with his body and bites Draco’s lip, nearly breaking it. Draco can taste the metallic flavour of blood, but he returns the kiss, tilting his head.

The wind blows softly, shaking down more leaves, which fall to the ground quietly and crumble under their feet as Harry drags Draco towards his flat. Getting there takes them more time than usual, as Potter makes frequent stops to press Draco against a tree and, in the midst of kissing, growl into his mouth about how Draco belongs to him and him only.

The flat is dark. They don’t turn on the lights, preoccupied with each other. They touch everywhere, though Harry takes over and lays Draco’s body on the bed, undressing him slowly with cold hands and kissing the patches of skin which he gradually uncovers. Draco trembles at the contrast between the chill of the fingers and the warmth of the lips. 

Harry teases the crevice between Draco’s buttocks with his thumb and holds Draco’s hips in place as Draco raises them, wanting more. Harry rubs his fingertip across the entrance and finally slips in, using his other hand to cover Draco’s mouth to stifle the moans.

‘Not yet. You will moan, but not just yet, _Draco_ ,’ he whispers, emphasizing the last word.

Draco breathes heavily and tries to hold still, though the hands, one caressing him between his legs and the other crushing his mouth, provide such extreme sensations, which complement each other and melt together – pain with pleasure and debasement with admiration – that he feels as if he was on fire, as if his blood suddenly stopped in its flow and wanted to burst out of his veins. But not in reaction to the sound of his family name on Potter’s lips, as he’s been silent so far, but in reaction to his touch and the pressure of his whole body.

Harry pulls back for a moment and nods towards the window. The candles on the sill and the floor light up immediately and after a while the room fills with their bitter, fresh smell. Draco takes it deep into his lungs and under some strange impulse, he nibbles at the hand covering his mouth.

Harry hisses quietly and pulls out two lubricated fingers from inside Draco.

‘This is how you want to play?’ he murmurs dangerously and bites down hard on Draco’s right shoulder.

Draco inhales sharply, feeling Harry’s teeth slide against his skin.

It hurts, but their firmness makes him want to feel it again, so he sticks out his tongue and licks the palm that is still squeezing his jaw.

In reply, Harry brings their faces together and enfolds him in warm breaths. He hovers over Draco for a few seconds, but then reaches between his legs again and enters him with three slick fingers. Draco spreads his thighs wider and moves his gaze from Harry’s one eye to the other. Finally, Potter removes the hand from his mouth, grabs him by the shoulders and flips them so that now Draco is on top.

He can feel the hard length pressing against his stomach. He pulls up his legs one by one and places them at Harry’s hips, supporting himself on his hands next to Harry’s head. He bends down and brushes his lips over Harry’s. Potter returns the kiss, deepening it and lifts his hips gently, nudging Draco’s erection with his own. Draco sighs right into his mouth and throws his head back, staring at the ceiling, which has grown grey in the darkness. They hold still, staying like this for a few seconds, both equally hungry for each other, hungry for power and domination, hungry for connection.

Finally Draco positions himself properly, opening his legs and sinks down onto Harry’s length, letting out a quiet hiss, mirrored by a similar sound that comes from Harry’s mouth. He feels the slight pain of the sudden stretch, but also the pleasure that comes from the fact that it is Harry, Harry himself, lying below him and breathing heavily, lifting his hips and entering him even deeper until he’s fully inside, every last inch of him.

The wind outside picks up and sweeps in through the half-open window, blowing around the bitter scent of the candles. Draco rises and falls and although the pain intensifies a little, he doesn’t stop, rubbing his erection against Potter’s stomach every time he sinks down. Harry meets his movements and after a moment they are harmonious, fully in sync. Finally, Harry thrusts in harshly, sinking his fingers into Draco’s shoulders and murmurs, ‘Malfoy.’ 

Draco lets out a long scream and tenses around him. Potter joins him and they howl together – one in pain, the other in pleasure, blending the two contrasting emotions. 

The wind roars outside, drowning out their screams. Draco finally relaxes and starts moving gently again. He feels beads of sweat gather on his back and he breathes heavily, squeezing his eyes shut.

‘Malfoy,’ Potter whispers again, lifting his hips and biting Draco’s collarbone.

Draco screams again, lowering himself and laying his forehead against Harry’s neck. He sucks in a hissed breath and releases it after a few seconds.

To stifle subsequent screams, he bites down hard on Harry’s shoulder. Potter’s eyelids flutter closed and he keeps muttering ‘Malfoy’ harshly with every thrust, but after a while he opens his eyes wide, staring at the teeth mark he has left on Draco’s skin.

Perhaps the sight of the red welt on the pale skin terrifies him. Perhaps he decides it is not allowed to mar such a perfect body. Or perhaps he notices that the pain he is inflicting on Draco is too severe.

But he falls quiet and only meets Draco’s movements, pulling him closer and embracing him. He nestles his face in the crook of Draco’s neck and slows down the thrusts.

They don’t come together. First Draco spills between their stomachs and falls down on Harry, though he continues rolling his hips gently. Harry joins him after a few seconds. Having reached completion, he slips out of Draco’s body, but doesn’t change their position.

Draco is still lying on him, cradled by strong arms, soft kisses trailing along his neck.

They fall asleep.

vVv

He is woken by a tingling sensation on his right arm. He opens his eyes and sees Potter’s face. Harry is moving a white feather gently along his neck and collarbone. The morning hasn’t come yet and the room is still immersed in darkness.

‘There’s a mark left,’ Harry whispers hoarsely and points to the red teeth mark on Draco’s skin. Draco glances at it from the corner of his eye, but then lifts his gaze again and watches Potter. He looks at his slightly parted lips, his tangled hair and the green eyes, currently not hidden behind glasses. He leans in and makes their lips brush.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he whispers.

‘It does,’ Potter replies and lifts his face a little. ‘It’s a blemish on your beautiful body.’

Draco tries to get up, but nearly all of his muscles are aching and his arms shake when he wants to use them for support. So he falls back down onto Harry and snuggles against his neck, inhaling the smell of his skin, soaked through with the bitterness from the candles.

‘I wrote the Comet to let them know you won’t be in for a few days because of some things you have to sort out in relation to the check-up,’ Potter says softly, caressing his back.

Draco murmurs quietly in response, feeling more tired than he’s ever been. The room is cold, but the body below him is giving off warmth and he’s covered tightly with the duvet.

He doesn’t want to get up. He doesn’t want to do anything. He wants to sleep through these few days that Harry got him.

But Potter seems to have other plans. He raises very gently and stands up, laying Draco down comfortably and tucking him in. He lays a perfectly ordinary peck on Draco’s forehead, very much like an evening kiss from a mother to a child, and leaves the room, grabbing a shirt along the way and pulling it onto his naked body.

‘I’m going to take care of you as long as necessary,’ he says quietly before he disappears behind the door.

Draco nods and falls back to sleep.

vVv

‘Wake up,’ he hears a quiet whisper.

The last flashes of a dream, blurry like a film projected onto a sheet of fog, vanish like mist does in the morning light, dissipating and drifting away.

He opens his eyes. He can see the white ceiling up above. He turns his head and notices Harry kneeling by the bed, holding his hand and rubbing the inside of Draco’s wrist with his thumb.

‘Slept all right?’

Draco nods and closes his eyes again, inhaling the bitter scent. The early morning light seeping in through the window falls on his face and instead of darkness he sees a mosaic of red and orange under his eyelids.

‘Hey, open your eyes,’ Potter whispers softly and sets his cheek against Draco’s stomach. ‘I’ll bring you breakfast.’

 _Well, that’s new_ , Draco thinks. He’s used to eating when he arrives at the coffee shop, making himself sandwiches or croissants.

‘What do you feel like having?’ Harry asks in the meantime.

‘Salmon,’ Draco says and buries himself in the warm sheets, pushing Harry’s head off his stomach. Before he falls asleep again, he hears a quiet chuckle.

vVv

When he opens his eyes again the sun is already high in the sky and the room is flooded with bright light. He smells food. He gets up, ignoring the faint ache in his muscles and pulls on the shirt he had on the previous day. It doesn’t cover his entire body, but he feels less silly than if he were to parade across the flat completely naked. He heads for the kitchen, where he hopes to find Potter.

He does. Potter is sitting at the table, drinking coffee and holding a cigarette between the fingers of his left hand. When he sees Draco, he stands up immediately and grabs the black blanket folded against the back of his chair. He covers Draco with it and embraces him, cradling him against his body.

‘Why did you get up?’ he asks and brushes Draco's forehead with his lips, at the same time extinguishing the cigarette against the wall and waving his hand to make the mark vanish. ‘I said I’d bring you breakfast.’

Draco shrugs and snuggles closer.

‘I’ve got your salmon,’ Harry says and Draco laughs quietly.

‘You do?’

‘Mhm,’ Harry affirms and pulls back, setting Draco on a chair. ‘What do you want to drink?’

‘Green tea?’ Draco replies half-questioningly.

Harry grins and opens the cupboard to take out a packet of the tea Draco’s requested. He waves his hands towards the stove and the hob below the kettle flares up. After a moment, the water boils and Potter sets the kettle aside. He opens the packet, throws a few dry leaves in a mug and takes a few more moments before pouring in the water and handing over the mug. Draco raises his eyebrows, surprised by the fact that Harry knows how to brew green tea, but he says nothing, adjusting the blanket that starts slipping off his shoulder. He wraps his fingers around the mug, trying to warm them up. He feels awkward.

Potter sets down a plateful of salmon in front of him and hands him a silver fork, then sits down opposite him and sips his coffee. After a few seconds of silence he combs his hand through his hair nervously and tilts back in the chair.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he asks and for the first time today, Draco smiles.

‘Good to know not everything’s turned upside down,’ he says, shaking his head.

Harry gazes at him, pensive. He beckons with his finger and a cigarette shoots out of the silver case next to the stove and flies into his mouth. He lights it with a snap of his fingers and keeps looking at Draco, a weird expression on his face.

vVv

They sleep in one bed, but they don’t make love, though Draco often tries to touch Potter provocatively. The man always pushes his hands away with a small smile, however. He aligns their bodies together and wraps his arms around Draco, giving off warmth until the wind howling outside lulls them to sleep. This is how nights pass.

The days, on the other hand, are grey and chilly. Harry makes adjustments to his paintings and doesn’t let Draco look into the study, which is the living room and the bedroom at the same time.

So Draco wanders around the flat and looks out of the kitchen window, spending hours staring at bare tree branches and single dark brown leaves lying here and there in the rotting grass, sometimes picked up by the wind and floating gently, dancing in the air. When it rains, he tries to count the raindrops on the window pane, but some of them slide down too quickly, thwarting his efforts.

One day he looks into the study and as soon as he’s past the threshold, he announces that his eyes are closed and he can’t see anything. That he only came in to get some of those white candles. Harry comes over to him and lightly kisses the spot on his neck that he bit that one night and pushes a few candle stubs into his hands. Draco lights them in the mornings, trying to dispel the grim, pale light of the late autumn dawn. The bitter scent of the candles combines with the smell of the cigarettes that Potter chain-smokes between numerous cups of coffee.

He picks at the frayed edges of the black blanket and pulls it more tightly around himself as he sits on the kitchen window sill, leaning against the pane with his right shoulder. He presses his feet against the radiator, which warms him up, producing a stark contrast with the glass of the window, cold against his cheek. The wind outside picks up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crema - a layer of foam at the top of a cup of espresso


	4. Chapter 4

The room is immersed in darkness. They are lying next to each other with their eyes open, neither able to fall asleep. Harry strokes Draco’s head, tangling hair strands between his fingers. They put out the candles a long time ago and still the bitter scent lingers in the air, permeating the room.

‘Sometimes…’ Potter starts, but cuts off.

Draco looks at the man as he pulls his hand back and stares resolutely at the ceiling. He scoots closer to Harry, pulling up the duvet to cover both of them more tightly.

‘Sometimes I see something that frightens me,’ Harry picks up after a moment as if he never stopped. ‘I’m walking down the street and suddenly my mind fills with a vision, one where the person I’m passing falls down and starts to bleed, flooding the street. Or someone’s flying a broom and gets impaled on a sharp spike. Merlin, sometimes it happens a dozen times a day, every day, and I don’t even know why. I’ll be sitting at a table, talking to someone and they start to - only inside my head, of course - they start to bleed from their eyes, their mouth, through their skin. They slide to the floor and cough up blood until finally… Fuck, I don’t know.’ He pulls up to sit, hiding his face in his hands. ‘Sometimes something heavy falls and crushes them, sometimes they just die in agony.’

A gust of wind whirls in through the half-open window, making Harry’s hair move gently.

‘Someone else gets dismembered by some madman. Or I see someone fall into pieces, just standing in the middle of a street or something. Their skin just bursts, blood floods them and all the guts spill out. Fuck.’ His shoulders tremble and his voice breaks over the last words. ‘Everyone that I know,’ he picks up after a moment, still holding his face in his hands, ‘I have seen covered in blood. Broken, gutted out, impaled on something. Fuck all of this,’ he says shrilly as if he was holding back tears. ‘You’re lying next to me now and I can see my bed soiled with your blood.’

Draco breathes in, feeling his body shake all over, but he pulls himself up and sits next to Potter, moving to embrace him.

‘Harry,’ he starts, but the man cuts him off.

‘Don’t speak! Stop!’ He shakes his shoulders when Draco’s hand slides across his back. ‘Don’t touch me!’

‘Why?’ Draco asks gently.

Harry is silent. He pushes his head between his knees and starts rocking back and forth. He’s breathing heavily and it takes him a while to reply, his voice trembling.

‘Your fingers are broken. Deep cuts on your hands.’

Draco bites down on his his lower lip, unwittingly fisting his hands and looking down at them as if he was really hurt.

‘Why are you telling me this?’ he whispers, still staring at his hands. ‘About the blood, the stars, the paintings.’

‘Because I know,’ Harry says quietly, still rocking with his head between his knees, his voice muffled, ‘that one day… One day… Just like all of them…’

He doesn’t finish.

vVv

‘I think I have to get back to work,’ he says one morning as Potter walks into the kitchen to get another cup of coffee. He pulls away from the window and slides off the sill, adjusting the blanket on his shoulders.

Harry stops and looks at him in silence. He nods and hums in acknowledgment on the backdrop of the rain that thuds against the window panes.

‘Tomorrow’s Sunday,’ he says quietly, coming closer to Draco. He cradles Draco’s face in his hands and kisses his mouth slowly. ‘Go back on Monday.’

Draco inhales the bitter air and snuggles into him.

‘All right,’ he murmurs. ‘But touch me.’

vVv

They enter the bedroom. The easel is covered with a dirty cloth, but Draco doesn’t even pay it any mind. He wraps his arms around Potter and kisses him deeply, as if trying to brand his own lips with the man’s flavour and be able to taste him forever.

Harry leans him against the piano and slides his hands under his shirt, never breaking the kiss. He tilts Draco back to push the shirt off his shoulders and throw it to the floor, but then he leans back in and makes their chests brush. Draco feels the coarse fabric of Potter’s shirt on his skin and starts rubbing against it, breathing slowly. Harry sighs and sets his hands on Draco’s hips, drawing him closer. He brushes his lips against Draco’s cheek and the corner of his mouth, huffing warm breaths on his skin, making Draco shiver. Potter embraces him and digs his fingers in Draco’s muscles, no longer sore and tender. They flex gently as Draco follows him, still clutched tightly and kissed. 

They move gracefully, in sync, step by step, body against body. Harry lays Draco on the bed, bends over him and kisses a winding path from his chin down to his navel, stopping there and wiggling the tip of his tongue inside. Draco lifts his hips, wanting to feel more but Harry only smiles and plants a soft kiss on his underbelly, holding him in place. Draco sighs quietly and bites on his lower lip, ceasing the struggle. The power that Harry holds over him seems natural and beautiful to Draco now, so he allows the man to do anything he likes without protest.

The room is cold, but they keep each other warm with the heat of their bodies and don’t feel the chill. The sheets - still slightly warm, as they woke up and got out of bed not long before - are under Draco’s back, rumpled and soaked through with the bitter smell.

‘Light a few candles,’ he asks quietly, closing his eyes and focusing on Potter’s hands, which are sprawled on his stomach in the same way they were on the counter-top at the coffee shop after their first night together.

Harry pulls his lips away from Draco’s chest and waves towards the window sill. Three of the candles there light up slowly and flicker mildly, spreading the bitter scent around the room. Draco pulls it into his lungs and opens his eyes, looking up at the face of the man above him.

It’s beautiful.

Rain thuds against the window panes, keeping the dim late autumn sun rays from seeping in and it’s only the faint candle flames that reflect in Harry’s eyes, dancing inside them to the rhythm of the wind howling outside. They are both immersed in grey, both absorbed by the chill of the gusts of wind blowing in through the half-open window and both hungry for the other person's body.

And also for power. And pain. And domination and pleasure and cold and rain and beauty and each other and each other again.

Harry slides his hands upwards, drawing lines on Draco’s skin with his fingernails, leaving thin pale marks. After a moment his hands close around Draco’s face and he hovers over him and kisses him slowly, with no rush, as if he wanted to make the kiss last until the end of the world and then half a second longer. Draco lifts his hands and places them on the man’s shoulders, squeezing his fingers. The shirt bunches up from the pressure and so he grips the fabric and pulls it up, exposing Potter’s whole back until the fabric is all rolled up and he’s grasping it tightly, still holding onto Harry. The man pulls away and stares at him, letting him pull the shirt over his head, the move making his glasses go askew. Under an incomprehensible impulse, Draco snatches them with his teeth, pulls them off and throws them away, making them slide off the bed and fall somewhere next to the shirt. Harry exhales with a hiss and grins, baring his teeth and Draco thinks it’s the most beautiful smile he has ever seen.

The rain grows heavier and begins thudding against the window more loudly. Harry’s fingers dart across Draco’s skin skillfully, in sync with the raindrops knocking against the tin drainpipe, tickling him. Draco giggles quietly and pulls the man’s face closer to kiss him deeply. He opens his thighs and wraps them around Potter’s waist, though they both still have their trousers on. Still, he can distinctly feel Potter’s hardness and he rubs his own erection against it. Harry rolls his hips gently, making Draco moan and throw his head back.

The slowness and carefulness somewhat reminds Draco of their first time and it’s so very different from the torture and rush that marked their latest one. A few days ago Harry used Draco’s body and how Draco reacts to the sound of his own family name to make pain and fulfillment blend, sparking off sensations which were so extreme and yet so related. But he loves it. He spent those grey autumn days, filled with rain and bare tree branches, waiting for physical contact and a wave of pain, because although the sensation of his veins being set on fire tortured his body, it also fused with the ecstasy of being touched and feeling Harry inside him. He loves it and he finally gets to experience it again.

But Potter doesn’t hurt him, he only pulls Draco’s trousers off very gently and a little clumsily, throws them aside and then fumbles with his own clothing. He hovers over Draco, pulling up his own legs one after the other and trapping Draco’s hips between them just like Draco did to him a few days ago and similarly placing his spread palms to the sides of Draco’s head.

They’re both dressed only in thin boxer shorts and the feeble light of the bitter white candles. Harry bends over him and kisses his lips, slipping between them with his tongue. Draco half-moans, half-sighs and raises his hips, making their erections come in contact again. Potter growls lowly, still burying his tongue in Draco’s mouth. Gentle, cold, long fingers run down his body and reach his underbelly, sneak under the fabric and slowly circle his swollen length. Harry pulls away and inhales sharply, trying to stop his hips from jerking.

Draco chuckles quietly, so quietly that the sound is almost drowned by the thud of the rain, but Harry hears it anyway. He bows his head and huffs over Draco’s mouth. Draco lets his eyes close and spreads his thighs a little.

Potter raises one hand and with a simple gesture, he summons the bottle of lubricant, which shoots out of the cupboard next to the easel. Then he pulls away and his body isn’t enfolding Draco’s anymore. Draco would like Harry to never leave him and hover over him forever, trapping him in his bed, never releasing him, never letting him go. So when Harry pushes Draco’s legs further apart and kneels between them, bringing their bodies closer again, Draco raises his arms and wraps his hands around Harry’s neck, pulling him closer and making their chests brush. Potter sets his hands on Draco’s hips, slides them down and makes the fabric of the boxer shorts vanish. Though the position they’re in constricts their movements, Harry somehow manages to reach for the bottle, staring straight at Draco, and opens it with a snap of his fingers. In order to pour some of the liquid onto his hand, he has to pull away from the body underneath. Draco doesn’t protest, however, because Harry brings his index finger to his entrance, placing his other hand next to Draco’s head for support. He enters Draco carefully, brushing his lips along Draco’s neck and starts to slide his finger inside, stretching. After a moment another finger slides in and Draco opens his thighs even more to allow Harry better access to his body.

Harry slips out with his fingers and lubricates them again. He slides them back into Draco, adding a third and reaches for the prostate, starting to tease it. Draco lets out a long moan and moves his hips. After a few moments Potter stops, withdraws from inside him and Draco breathes deeply, wishing to feel something more than only the three fingers that moved in him gently, almost tenderly. It’s not enough. He craves a strong thrust and a violent wave of pleasure, flooding him and sparkling, crystal-clear, around scorching pain in his veins.

Potter enters him carefully with his lubricated length and Draco immediately wraps his legs around him and pulls him in fervently, wanting to feel him deep inside as soon as possible.

‘Harder,’ he pants and jerks his hips.

‘No,’ Harry chokes out, but the tone of his voice lets on that he would like to be violent. Still, he presses in gently and Draco shivers, but that’s not it. That’s not what he’s been craving for so many days.

‘Fucking fuck me,’ he wails, wishing to enrage Potter with the words, to make him more brutal.

‘Shut up,’ Potter grits out, but he moves a bit more forcefully, squeezing his eyes shut. The flicker of the two candles illuminates his face softly and Draco watches the barely visible shadow of his long eyelashes on his cheek.

‘No,’ he barks. ‘I won’t shut up. Fucking fuck me. Fucking fuck me. Fucking…’

Harry growls savagely and bites down on Draco’s shoulder hard - the same spot he clenched his teeth on a few days ago - starting to move inside him harshly and sinking into him as deep as possible. Draco stops talking and moans loudly, throwing his head back. He pushes his hips up and meets Potter’s strong thrusts, allowing him deep inside. Yes, that’s it. The long hours spent watching dark brown leaves dancing in the wind on the backdrop of dark tree trunks and their thin branches, crushing his cheek against the cold window pane, covered by thousands of small water drops on the other side, all of it suddenly starts making sense. Their movements become more violent, faster - as fast as the rain drops running down the window pane, vanishing as they meet the black wood of the architrave.

‘Say it,’ he gasps after a few minutes, knowing Potter will understand.

Potter moves even more fiercely and clenches his teeth as if trying to stop himself from making any sounds. He pushes harder and presses their chests together, causing some pain to Draco’s ribs. But that’s not enough.

‘Come on, say it, finally, say it!’ Draco yells and digs his nails into his palms until red half-circular marks appear, so different from the white lines that appeared on his chest for just a few seconds at a time when Harry scratched him softly.

‘Malfoy!’ Potter shouts hoarsely and they both immediately come, feeling as perfect as never before.

The rain still thuds against the tin drainpipe, drowning out their screams. The water falling from the sky washes over the half-open window and a few drops slither inside, sprinkling two naked bodies.

vVv

Sometimes waking up very early can stop the universe for a few minutes. Sometimes looking out of the window, where late-autumn greyness spills over the world and enfolds everything in sight can take your breath away and make you perch on the window sill to admire the view that cannot be experienced at any other time of the year or any other hour. Sometimes one candle, standing on the window sill and flickering with feeble light a few seconds before extinguishing is the only thing that can rival pale dawn and trees wet with rain.

When Draco wakes up in Harry’s strong arms and inhales the bitter scent that permeates the room, and when he looks out of the window to see the ashy sky, he smiles broadly, feeling the pain enfolding his whole body.

Sometimes you think you have already discovered what is most beautiful in the world, but then, mornings like this one come and you have to turn your entire system of values upside down in order to be able to snuggle against the chilly arm and fall back to sleep.

vVv

A tickling sensation wakes him up from a shallow sleep, from a dream filled with transparent raindrops, quick against a window pane, turning, crashing against each other and dancing, creating wet trails on the glass. When he opens his eyes he is hit with a feeling of déjà vu as once again, above, he sees Potter slowly moving a small feather along his arm.

‘You have a mark again,’ Potter says hoarsely.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Draco replies in a similar tone and he wants to add something about how he likes Harry biting him and giving him pain, but Potter interrupts him, speaking firmly.

‘It does matter.’

They gaze at each other in silence for a few seconds until Potter finally brings his mouth to Draco’s collarbone and kisses the red welt gently, as if wanting to make a point of the contrast between the hardness of the teeth and the softness of the lips.

‘It _does_ matter. You have a beautiful body.’

Draco lifts his head and looks into his eyes, cradling his face in his palms and bringing it closer.

‘It’s all yours,’ he whispers and kisses him softly.

The flame of the candle on the window sill dies down, the candle burnt down entirely. Only the silver candlestick remains, its base still holding the cigarette butt which Harry left there many days ago.

‘No one must damage something this beautiful,’ Potter starts after a moment, weaving his hands through his hair. ‘I did.’

‘I’ve long forgotten about it,’ Draco says.

‘I haven’t. I destroyed the perfection, but I wanted to fix it. I didn’t touch you for all those days to let your beauty return, and tonight I spoiled it all again.’

Harry hovers over him and watches him for a while, his eyes travelling across Draco’s face. He traces his finger along the contour of Draco’s mouth, then does the same using his tongue.

‘I want to draw you,’ he says finally. ‘But your body must be unblemished again, and only then I’ll portray it.’

  


vVv

Exactly eight days after this event Draco turns the key in the lock, casts the warding spells and turns to Harry, taking his hand. He feels Potter entwine their fingers together and squeeze hard, as if afraid that Draco may decide to flee. Draco smiles to himself at the thought and presses closer to Potter.

They walk together in near-darkness, admiring the starry sky hanging high above them. It comes to Draco’s mind that walking together to Harry’s flat is almost a tradition, as beautiful as locking the Manor with a key.

When they arrive at the flat, it is immersed in darkness. Harry lights up the candles in his study with a wave of his hand and the room immediately brightens. He snaps his fingers and the burning of the flames intensifies, giving off even more light. He turns towards Draco and tangles a hand in his hair, sending him a small smile. He kisses him gently, pushing him against the piano and setting him down on the black fall covering the keyboard.

‘You are beautiful,’ he whispers, lips against lips.

Draco closes his eyes and inhales, moving closer to Harry until he’s almost slipping down from the instrument. Potter catches him in a swift move and brings him closer, clutching hard.

‘If there is anyone in the world worthy of being portrayed, it is certainly you,’ Harry adds, sliding his finger along Draco’s jaw.

Draco smiles and opens his eyes to meet a green gaze, fully focused on him. For a moment they stay like this, immobile, but after a few seconds Potter grabs his shoulders, leads him across the room and places him next to the black curtain near the window, just behind the easel. He leaves him there and moves to his stand, reaching towards it and removing the dirty cloth. 

‘Stand still,’ he says.

Draco is trying not to move, but he can’t help staring at him. Every day for over a week Draco would come to the coffee shop and watch Harry at his table, but the man didn’t approach him even once. He would just sit there, noting something down, maybe sketching. He didn’t even glance at Draco. Now Draco has him a few feet away and he can’t even move, though he longs to come up to him, touch him, inhale the bitter air together with him.

Meanwhile, Harry takes a long black piece of charcoal in his hand and looks at Draco. He smiles broadly and walks over to him, grabbing him by the jaw while placing the stick between his fingers - it digs into Draco’s throat as he swallows. Potter smiles again, the left corner of his mouth a little higher than the right one, then pulls his hand away from Draco’s chin and brings the pencil to Draco’s mouth. The moment Draco feels the pencil touch his lips, he inhales shakily and, despite the feeling of surprise, lets Harry continue tracing the black contour.

‘The shape of your mouth is amazing,’ Harry whispers, still sliding the pencil against it as if he wanted to strengthen the black that the charcoal leaves behind.

Draco closes his eyes and inhales, feeling how, thanks to the slow movements of the man’s hands, the pencil is still drawing around his lips. He parts them slightly and then the pressure disappears and is replaced by Harry’s warm lips. He returns the kiss, tasting the charcoal and breathing in the bitter scent of the burning candles. At this moment, he’s willing to decide this is the most beautiful blend in the entire universe.

When Harry pulls away from him, he wants to open his eyes, but Harry doesn’t let him, pressing his eyelids shut with his fingers. Draco can feel the slight tremble of the fingertips and the light pressure of the thumbs and he breathes in slowly, wanting to feast on this very intimate kind of touch, which doesn’t seem like much at first glance. Potter slides his fingertips softly against one eyelid. After a moment he moves them away, but before Draco has a chance to open his eyes, he feels the pressure of something thinner and colder. The object moves slowly along his eyelashes, from the inside corner outwards and takes a turn, drawing a line below, too. Then the pressure moves to his other eye and it darts across his eyelid, as if trying to map out a trail.

‘Look at me,’ Harry murmurs.

Draco obediently opens his eyes and meets dilated pupils enfolded in the vivid green of irises. Harry draws along his lower eyelids and then smiles at him and grabs his shoulders. He turns Draco around so that Draco can see the black curtain in front of him now. Potter props his chin on Draco’s shoulder and raises one charcoal-covered hand. He gives a little wave and the curtain suddenly parts in the middle and slides to the sides, revealing a huge mirror that runs from the floor all the way up to the ceiling. Draco’s eyes skim his bare feet, so pale that they’re almost indiscernible against the light floorboards, his long legs, narrow hips, his chest, finally reaching his head and…

‘Harry…’

He can see his own face, surrounded by fair hair, pale, thin, with a well-defined chin, which nevertheless goes well with the shape of his cheekbones, and his grey eyes, now edged in charcoal black. He looks at the reflection but he isn’t sure he’s seeing himself. He opens his mouth and then he sees that his lips are black, as if soaked in the night sky that Harry so wishes to get lost in.

‘Harry…’ he repeats so quietly that he can’t hear himself, still staring at his own reflection.

Potter slides his hands across his shoulders, still holding the thin pencil between the fingers of one hand. He reaches Draco’s face and, in one soft move, brings the charcoal to the right corner of Draco’s mouth. His eyes move to the mirror and he makes their gazes cross. The pencil in his hand trembles gently as he starts pulling it upwards, diagonally across Draco’s cheek until he reaches a spot just above the ear. Draco watches him move the pencil from one hand to the other and do the same on the other side of his face. When he’s finished, he slides the charcoal into his mouth, between his teeth, and presses four fingertips to each of the lines he’s drawn. He places them at regular intervals and slides them down, which makes the trail smear and now Draco can see dark smudges reaching down to the sharp edges of his jaw. He looks at their reflections and watches Harry wrap his fingers around his neck so that his thumbs and index fingers meet on either side. Draco swallows and feels the movement strengthen the pressure. In this very moment, he knows that his life belongs to Potter - unequivocally - and all it would take is one move, one squeeze of the fingers… But Harry eases the pressure and pulls Draco’s shirt off, flinging it to the side. The black lips, the heavily traced eyes and the dark trails on his cheeks make Draco look like…

‘You look like a walking work of art,’ Harry suddenly says in a somewhat hoarse voice, taking the charcoal out of his mouth and placing it at Draco’s lips again, as if he wanted to make them even blacker.

‘I look like I’m bleeding in black,’ Draco replies quietly, pointing at his cheeks with a soft gesture.

Potter freezes and gives a firm look towards the reflection of Draco’s eyes in the mirror. He places his hands on Draco’s shoulders and squeezes hard until Draco can feel the thin pencil digging into his collarbone.

‘No,’ he drawls slowly, clutching even tighter with his fingers. ‘No blood.’

Draco inhales, staring at Harry’s reflection with terror. The man is clutching him for a moment longer, but then he lets go as if he’s remembered that he mustn’t mar this beauty with bruises.

‘You look like a walking work of art,’ he repeats. ‘You are so perfect, you should be locked up in a glass display case, like at a doll museum or something, so that your perfect body can be watched for hours on end. Lock the door and throw away the key, so that you can never flee. So that you can be looked at, admired, sketched, worshiped.’

Draco exhales, shivering slightly and closes his eyes, his mind bringing up images of what Harry is saying. He wouldn’t mind that at all. Indeed, he _craves_ to stay in Harry’s hands forever and he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to leave him of his own volition.

When he feels the slight pressure of the charcoal on his chest, he cracks his eyes open and looks down. He sees the pencil glide across his skin and moves his eyes to the mirror again. Harry is still standing behind him and he’s drawing something gently on his chest, holding his hand between Draco’s arm and torso and watching his own work on the pane of glass instead of the skin. Draco can see his reflection just above his own shoulder, a look of concentration on Harry’s face as his eyes follow the moving charcoal. It is only after a while that Draco recognizes the image that forms under Potter’s fingers.

The deep black, sharp edges of the small five-pointed stars stand out against the pale complexion, giving the impression of digging into the skin. Harry’s hand guides the thin pencil and after a moment a black crescent moon appears between Draco’s nipples. When Potter is finished, he props his chin on Draco’s shoulder and lays a soft kiss on the nape of his neck. Moving gently, he slips the pencil into Draco’s hand and moves his own fingers, the tips already darkened by the charcoal, to touch the edges of his drawing. He slides his fingers across them slowly, smudging the lines and making the image on Draco’s chest blurry as if it was behind a fogged pane of glass.

‘Identical,’ Harry murmurs against his neck, but the sound is so quiet that if it wasn’t for the proximity of their bodies, Draco wouldn’t hear a thing.

Draco clutches the charcoal tighter in his hand when Potter’s dirty fingers reach the crescent. They smudge the contour and slide softly inside the shape, darkening the surface of the skin.

‘Identical,’ Potter repeats a little louder and his eyes move to Draco’s face, their gazes crossing in the mirror.

Draco glides his fingers against the charcoal pencil as he watches Harry stick out his tongue and slowly lick along the shell of Draco’s ear, then slide it inside. Draco’s eyes travel to his own chest and he watches it rise and fall sharply with his deep, shaky breaths, making the stars and the moon undulate gently. The tongue is moving softly and Draco’s breathing speeds up and as soon as he thinks he can’t stand this for much longer, Potter pulls away and makes their sight cross in the mirror again. His eyes are very different from usual, so… _naked_ , all-revealing. Draco looks into them and he can see hunger and desire. He feasts on the emotions, because since the day they spoke in the coffee shop - for the first time in a year, for the first time since the end of the war - when he was able to catch the strange glint of fascination, he has never had a chance to read anything in Harry’s eyes.

Potter bows his head, but this eyes travel up so that he can continue looking straight at Draco. The hunger in his gaze grows even more intense. He raises his hands and places them flat against Draco’s cheeks, touching his dirty fingertips to Draco’s temples and leaving dark marks. He tilts Draco’s head and bends down to kiss him. When he pulls back, Draco can see Harry’s lips have grown darker, too. Potter bites his lower lip, his eyes wandering from Draco’s mouth to his eyes and back and then shifts closer again and kisses him. Draco turns around and brings their chests together, feeling Harry’s shirt rub against his bare skin.

Potter reaches out with his hands and taking hold of Draco’s shoulders, pushes him away. For a few seconds, he stares into Draco’s eyes, but after a moment his gaze slithers down, along Draco’s chest, stomach, legs and stopping at his feet. Harry lets go of Draco’s shoulders and drops his arms. At this very moment, he has a look almost identical to the one he had in the National Gallery, talking about Friedrich.

As if hearing Draco’s thoughts, Harry lifts his head and gazes into his eyes again. He tilts his head slightly to the right and sticks out his tongue, sliding it over his own darkened lips. Draco draws in a breath and feels himself beginning to blush. On more than one occassion, Potter has done things which were much more perverse and obscene and while Draco wanted each and every one of them, still - this gentle swipe of the tongue… Harry has never before been so unbearably slow, so damn subtle and so incredibly affectionate. He has never looked at Draco as if he _really_ saw beauty in him. As if he _really_ believed Draco was worthy of being drawn, forever imprinted on canvas. The realisation hits Draco hard and he has to close his eyes a little, unable to keep looking at Harry while the man watches him so lasciviously, so lazily, so slowly and so candidly. So Draco stands in front of him with his eyes closed, breathing deeply and inhaling the bitter scent that makes him think of faraway lands where there is no magic, no war and no disinheritance. Where there is only Harry, he and art.

As he feels gentle cold fingers slide across his torso, he starts breathing heavier and squeezing his eyes shut tighter. The fingertips dart across his chest, tracing paths Draco would never discover on his own. Now he feels as if up to this moment, he hadn’t realised that he had been wandering in the dark, until finally Harry showed up to light Draco’s way with his bitter candles. Draco inhales and holds the air in a while longer while Potter moves his fingers from Draco’s torso to his stomach, circling his navel and moving closer, huffing warm breaths over Draco’s face. The contrast these sensations bring makes Draco think of the contrast painted on his own chest - black stars on pale skin. The cold fingers move down and glide slowly over his thighs, the cold penetrating the fabric of his trousers, until finally they stop and freeze, unable to slide even lower.

As Draco starts to open his eyes, Harry raises his right hand and snaps his fingers softly. Draco’s eyelids grow heavy and thick and he can’t crack them open. And so he keeps still, unseeing, but feeling the touch of Potter’s fingers on his legs, the warm breath in his lips, chest, stomach… After a moment the fingers slither lower and Draco realises Harry must have knelt before him to reach that low.

Potter’s fingers move up and undo the button of Draco’s dark trousers. He sticks out his tongue and licks the spots where he has drawn black trails, wandering across Draco’s torso and down. Draco heaves a heavy sigh, feeling himself get incredibly hard. Without removing his tongue from Draco’s skin, Harry reaches for Draco’s zip and undoes it painfully slowly. Draco utters a sob-like sound, but he isn’t even bothered, focusing on the touch of Harry’s daft fingers. Potter pulls down Draco’s trousers and takes them off, lifting each of Draco’s legs in turn to finally send the trousers flying behind his back. A moment later Draco is left wearing only thin boxer shorts, which tent over his erection. In a determined but slow move, Harry slips his index fingers under the elastic of the underwear and pulls downwards. The shorts get stuck on Draco’s hard length and Potter chuckles quietly. He moves his fingers towards Draco’s erection and gently pulls down the shorts. Draco gulps and can’t decide if he should try to open his eyes, to look at him, to say something, to stay silent, to moan, to move, to kneel too… But Harry doesn’t pay Draco’s insecurity any mind and grasps his erection gently with a hand that is surely still dirty with charcoal. He drags his fingers over the length and Draco shivers. As Harry grants it with the first, slightly shy kiss, Draco moans quietly, because Harry has never… Has _never_ before…

Potter snaps his fingers and Draco opens his eyes, his gaze instantly meeting Harry’s green eyes, their pupils dilated. He looks to the mirror and watches their reflections. Potter’s dark hair contrasts with Draco’s pale skin, just like the black curtain is stark against the light floorboards and the paint on the wall with the white of the plaster.

The tongue slides softly over the underside of his erection and Draco pants heavily, bowing his head and letting his hair hang around his face, breaking the eye contact with his own reflection. He’s staring at Harry, whose shoulders tense slightly as he shifts and adjusts his position. Now Draco can perfectly see Potter’s darkened lips stretching around his length and the sight makes his knees tremble. He can’t avert his eyes from the man kneeling in front of him, but he also doesn’t want to look, because it is making him unable to keep upright, he can’t, he’s forgotten how it’s done and he doesn’t want to anymore. He wants to do something else, anything to be closer to Harry, to drown in him, to have Harry in him, on him, with him…

Finally, he glances into the mirror again and he can’t get over the sight. He feels so incredibly beautiful, seeing his pale chest marked with dark stars and his bright face outlined by blond hair and wearing the terrifyingly stunning make-up. His grey eyes, now dark with lust, are filled in with black, which makes them seem bigger and deeper, as if his entire being wanted to spill out of the dilated pupils and paste itself all over Harry, Harry’s black hands, black lips, black hair, pale chest… So Draco closes his eyes, as if scared his soul might pour out through them and truly seep into the man kneeling before him, who right at this moment… oh… _yes_ …

When he comes in Potter’s mouth, the man pulls back a little to soon, which makes most of the liquid ooze out of his mouth and Draco can’t help thinking that _now it is Harry who is beautiful_. With the trickle of white seed dribbling down his chin, in stark contrast to his blackened mouth, his hair, tousled even more than usual, with these astounding dark green eyes, so wide open, with these thin darkened fingers that now dart lightly across Draco’s stomach, climbing higher and higher until they reach his chin and can’t reach any higher, because Potter’s arms are too short, or maybe it’s Draco who’s too tall, though they are of the same height, after all… Harry is beautiful, and yet he whispers, ‘You’re beautiful, boy. Beautiful.’

And Draco believes him. He looks into the mirror and he can see the beauty, he can see himself through Harry’s eyes and he wants to remain this way forever.

As Potter rises slowly, wiping his mouth with his hand, Draco observes how, in places, the charcoal gives his semen a grey tinge and it makes Draco feel incredibly unreal. Sperm has always been white - no matter who it belonged to - and now Potter made it grey, change colour, become different entirely, their very own. The earlier white on Harry’s chin was the complete opposite of the black on Draco’s cheeks and now the two substances blended as if to symbolise Harry and Draco’s connection.

‘What are you thinking?’ Harry murmurs, his lips against Draco’s.

‘About,’ Draco replies in the same tone, ‘how amazing you are and how much I wish for you to be completely mi…’ The last word gets lost in Potter’s mouth when he kisses Draco deeply, cutting him off.

‘I,’ he says slowly, pulling back a little, ‘don’t belong to anyone. I belong to art.’

And he kisses Draco again, before he has the time to consider the meaning of the words. Harry pushes him against the mirror. He entwines their fingers and raises their hands, pinning them to the surface - just above Draco’s head so that Draco can feel his own hair tickle his wrists. Potter draws back and glances at his own clothing and it vanishes in an instant. When Draco sees his erection, he can feel himself harden too, despite having just reached fulfillment.

Harry stands on tiptoe and lifts his head, then brings it close to Draco’s left forearm and with a slowness so painful and devastating that it tears from Draco _everything that he has_ , Harry swipes his tongue along the spot where the Dark Mark used to be before the disinheriting spell erased it. Draco trembles uncontrollably and tilts his head back equally slowly, as if Potter was somehow controlling his reactions. But he knows perfectly well that Harry is indeed influencing him, influencing him strongly, controlling him whole, all his feelings, emotions, words, thoughts and even his movements. That Draco is Harry’s, and Harry is not Draco’s - it’s as clear as stars against a dark sky.

When Potter pulls away, the skin of Draco’s forearm is glistening slightly with saliva. He brings their foreheads together, now separated only by a few strands of blond hair. The surface of the mirror is fogged in the places where Draco’s naked body leans against it. They breathe the acrid air and watch each other from so close up that everything is blurry and they can’t tell apart the irises from the pupils. As Draco closes his eyes for a moment, the blackness of the charcoal that adorns them blurs in front of Harry’s eyes and blends with the whiteness of the pale skin. Potter bends over him and kisses his deeply, but incredibly slowly. His hips tremble gently as they start rolling. He nips Draco’s lips with his own, which makes Draco think of their first pain-filled kiss. Potter locks his fingers around Draco’s hands, pinning them to the mirror and pushing more firmly with his hips. He breathes quickly and looks down at their erections. His dark hair falls over his face and tangles with Draco’s light strands and Draco thinks of how much he loves Harry’s contrasts, the contrast of the black paint on the white falls, the contrast of charcoal and paper, the contrasts within him - his gentleness entwined with his firmness…

He moves his hips, watching Potter’s parted lips with half-lidded eyes. He’s breathing through his mouth too, so they share the sour air that permeates the room. Their movements are slow and sensual, as if they wanted to prolong this moment forever and half a second longer. Finally Harry pins him to the mirror and freezes, lifting his gaze and looking into Draco’s eyes. His face draws back a little and he starts moving their still entwined hands down along a half-circle path on the surface of the glass until Draco’s arms are open and spread wide to the sides. 

Harry blows away hair strands that fall onto his forehead and bites down on his lower lip. His mouth is still darkened, but it’s nowhere near the blackness of Draco’s lips. He looks down at Draco’s legs and speaks quietly, gazing at them.

‘Your feet are so pale, they’re almost invisible on the light floor.’

Draco moves his fingers to clasp them harder around Potter’s hands. 

‘You have beautiful legs,’ Harry continues, his gaze slithering up. ‘So straight, so slim, so long. You look fucking amazing in these tight black jeans of yours.’

He smiles softly and blows cold air on Draco’s chest.

‘If I make it, maybe I’ll fuck you when you’re wearing your trousers. I’ll just unzip them and pull them down a little, to be able to watch those beautiful legs that drive me to the verge of insanity.’ 

‘We have our whole lives ahead of us,’ Draco speaks shyly. ‘You’ll make it.’

Harry’s smile widens and he shakes his head, but does not comment. His gaze travels to the black stars and the half-moon he himself drew on Draco’s torso.

‘I love the whiteness of your skin. It’s as pale as the canvas I’m going to draw you on and you can see the blue of your veins underneath. The hue reminds me of the cerulean of the water from Monet’s ‘Impression’. And I love your protruding ribs and your jutting collarbones. All of your slim body, because it’s amazing and it’s mine and mine only,’ he murmurs quietly and disentangles their fingers.

Draco remains with his arms spread to the sides as if they were glued to the mirror. Harry sets his hands on Draco’s shoulders and slides them along his arms, moving them down across the surface of the glass. As he presses Draco’s wrists to his thighs, Draco closes his eyes, feeling Potter’s fingers travel back up. They stop and squeeze his shoulders, but only lightly. Draco winces because he hasn’t felt pain in so long and he wants to experience it again from Harry’s hands and mouth.

‘You guide it, but it belongs to me,’ Potter says and pulls him away from the mirror.

Draco remembers his own words which he directed at Harry when they were together after so many grey days filled with rain and smoke rising from slim cigarettes. When Potter was so gentle and careful, but still he uttered Draco’s family name, bringing him to the climax that made pain and orgasm blend together like the sperm and charcoal on Harry’s cheek a few minutes ago. _‘You have a beautiful body.’ ‘It’s all yours.’_

‘It’s all yours,’ he repeats quietly, opening his eyes and staring into Harry’s dilated pupils.

Harry nods and turns Draco so that he’s facing the mirror.

‘Look,’ he says firmly, ‘at the beauty I own.’

Draco stares at the reflection of his own eyes, outlined in black. His parted lips are still darkened and the stars and the half-moon on his chest have blurred slightly, but their shapes are still recognizable.

‘Watch as I take what is mine.’

Potter grabs his hands and places them low against the mirror so that Draco has to bend in order to keep his balance. He feels the man’s knee slip between his legs, opening his thighs. He’s still staring at his own eyes, now open so wide that he looks terrified. His gaze travels to the parted black lips and the lower line of teeth. He sticks out his tongue and swipes it along the upper lip. He looks at the high cheekbones, still bearing the dark lines Potter smeared with his fingertips, creating dark smudges that run down to Draco’s jaw. His fringe falls over his forehead, in complete disarray, and some hair strands are dirty with charcoal. At this very moment he can believe Harry when he says Draco’s incredibly beautiful.

‘You’re looking at my possession,’ Potter whispers.

Draco nods quickly and closes his eyes, feeling one lubricated finger slip inside him.

‘Open your eyes,’ Harry murmurs into his ear.

So he does what Potter says and stares at himself again, the corner of his eye catching sight of the reflection of the man behind him. As their eyes cross in the mirror, Harry licks his lips and bends over Draco. He brings his mouth to Draco’s temple and, still staring deep into the grey eyes, whispers slowly.

‘Look at yourself. Look at what is mine and mine only.’

Draco keeps watching him for a moment, but then he obediently turns his gaze to his own face again. He gulps when Potter adds another finger and crooks them both inside Draco. He arches his back, trying to stifle the low lengthy moan that spills out of his mouth anyway. Harry laughs quietly and inserts another finger, stretching Draco further. Draco drops his head and for a second, he watches his own feet, fisting his hands and leaning against the mirror with the insides of his wrists only, distinctly sensing the chill of the glass. After a while he lifts his gaze, however, looking at his own reflection again, submissively obeying Potter’s command.

As Harry enters him, Draco wants to move, he craves roughness permeating his body, pain spreading through his veins, clenched teeth and a tight hold on his hips, one that leaves bruises. Potter, however, is gentle, as gentle as he has never been before. His slow thrusts make Draco want to beg for more, but at the same time, he can’t tear his gaze away from his own reflection. Harry told him to look, so he obediently follows the order. His grey eyes, outlined in black charcoal, are almost magnetic, though until now he hasn’t realised the existence of something like… auto-hypnosis? – but at this moment he feels it’s completely feasible, he himself being the proof.

He feels a gentle, barely-there touch of cold fingers on his hips and he pants heavily, pressing his forehead to the mirror. Still, he keeps his eyes firmly on his own reflection. The air he is breathing out sets in a fog on the surface of the glass. After many of Potter’s thrusts, each one of them seeming softer than the previous one to Draco, single trickles of water start sliding down the fogged glass, reminding Draco of the grey days that were filled with torrential rain and anticipation. Back then, he would track the raindrops sliding down the other side of the window pane and try to catch up with them, which always ended in his defeat. Now he doesn’t even try to pull his fist away from the mirror to try and trace with his finger his own breath streaming down the glass. Harry told him to watch, so he watches. He doesn’t want to do anything else.

His heart beats in the rhythm of unsteady inhales and exhales and Potter synchronises his movements with the harmony that permeates Draco’s body. Draco wants to beg Harry to become more violent, to use the power he has over him, to lead him down the road of pain and over the edge, to the epicentre - the epicentre of Harry, the epicentre of pain. But instead, he still stares into his own eyes, which he can’t make out very clearly being so close to the mirror. He’s breathing through his still parted lips, which makes even more condensation dribble down the glass. His knuckles hurt from being pressed so hard to the surface but that’s only a _drop_ in the sea of his cravings. Potter’s moves are not enough, so Draco pushes back with his hips, wanting to feel _more, stronger, harder_. More thrusting, stronger pressure and harder moves. 

But Harry freezes when he feels Draco push against him. He bends over him, sets a hand on Draco’s shoulder and speaks lowly.

‘You cannot be blemished. I mustn’t leave any marks on your skin.’ He swipes his hand along Draco’s shoulder and stops when he reaches the spine, just below Draco’s nape. ‘You were made to pose. But if I want you completely perfect, you cannot be marred. In any way.’

Draco can feel cold fingers reach his nape and his eyes fall shut. He opens them a moment later, remembering that Harry ordered him to watch.

‘This body is yours entirely,’ he says slowly.

He doesn’t say ‘my body’, as if he is perfectly aware that at this point it no longer belongs to him, but that it is Potter who possess it, unquestioningly and irreversibly.

Harry’s smile is reflected in the glass over Draco’s shoulder as the hand retracts from under his hair and pulls away from his nape. Harry runs his hands along Draco’s sides and sets them down gently at his hips. The following thrusts are soft and unhurried and the cold fingers wrap themselves deftly around Draco’s length. Draco closes his eyes and draws as much as he can from those movements, aware that Harry doesn’t want to cause him pain today. But the awareness itself is _painful_ , so he accepts it, submitting to Potter completely.

Thin trickles of water still slide down the glass, which makes the mirror look as if it was bleeding a transparent liquid. The fogged surface no longer reflects Draco’s face as clearly as it did minutes ago, but he doesn’t mind, as he wouldn’t be able to observe himself properly anyway with his forehead pressed to the cold glass. So he watches his own breath, now liquefied, sliding down the glass slowly, lower and lower. The drops dart one next to another as if chasing each other, just like Draco would once chase the rain drops on the window pane with his finger.

Harry’s thrusts are becoming deeper and less coordinated and Draco knows that the man is close. He himself is teetering on the edge and he knows he will be coming in just a few moments, a few thrusts, just… a little… _more_ …

They orgasm together. Draco’s sperm marks the glass and blends with the thin trickles of water, which have by now slid much lower. The mirror looks like it’s bleeding in white.


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes up in bed, though he can’t remember how he got there. It’s still dark outside, which means morning hasn’t come yet. Next to him, Harry is lying on his back and staring at the starry black sky.

‘You’re awake,’ he says, taking a slim white cigarette out of his mouth.

Draco nods and watches the iron smoke billowing in the air. Intricate coils tangle with each other and undulate in sync with the gentle gusts of wind coming in through the half-open window.

Harry’s eyes travel to Draco and he waves his hand, making the silky puffs disperse. He snaps his fingers and the cigarette as well as the smoke vanish, but Draco keeps looking at them. When Potter notices what Draco is looking at, he raises his hand, palm towards Draco, and bends his fingers upwards a little.

‘Is this what you’re looking at?’

Draco nods gently and swallows.

‘You’re remembering yesterday evening,’ Harry carries on in a confident tone. ‘Thinking about these fingers inside you.’

‘Yes,’ Draco whispers, because it’s the truth and he shivers, the wind swirling in through the window blowing against his skin.

‘You’d like to feel them again, wouldn’t you?’ Harry says, sliding his hand along Draco’s ear. ‘I know you would.’ His fingers run down Draco’s jaw. ‘I know how much you love it.’

Draco closes his eyes, focusing on the cold fingertips darting against his cheek, but after a moment Harry pulls back his fingers. Draco opens his eyes and sees Potter rise on an elbow and stare at Draco with hunger in his eyes, but not the _I-want-to-fuck-you_ kind. No, it’s a hunger of a completely different kind and Draco understands it perfectly. He gulps, watching Harry’s gaze travel along his entire body, slide back up to his chest and stop there. Harry lifts his hand and with a small gesture, he summons a piece of charcoal from the easel tray.

Draco inhales when Harry slides the pencil into his own mouth and sucks on it gently, still staring deep into Draco’s eyes. Draco wets his lips unknowingly as Potter slides out the charcoal and brings it to Draco’s torso. He presses the tip of the pencil to a spot where blurry dark trails are still discernible, remnants of the stars and the half-moon. He slides the charcoal down, making the faint contours deep black once again. Finally, he tears his eyes away from Draco and his look moves to Draco’s chest. He traces the faded black lines of the drawings, pressing the pencil gently against them and after a while the sketch is as clear as it was the night before. As he finishes, Harry pulls the pencil away from Draco’s skin and looks into his eyes again. He raises the charcoal and makes it hang in the air just milimetres away from Draco’s left eyelid. Draco keeps looking at Harry for a few seconds longer, but then closes his eyes.

‘Good boy,’ Potter murmurs.

Just then Draco feels the pressure of the still slightly wet pencil on his eyelid. He sighs softly, submitting to Harry’s ministrations. As the charcoal traces around his other eye, Harry kisses his parted lips gently. A moment later, however, he pulls back. Draco opens his eyes and sees Potter watching Draco’s chest, tilting his head to the side. He seems deep in thought. But when Draco is just about to lift up and touch him, Harry smiles, the left corner of his mouth a little higher than the right one, and starts tracing the charcoal along Draco’s lips. Draco opens his mouth slightly, letting the man fill them thoroughly with black.

‘You’re breathtaking,’ Harry says quietly, pulling back the pencil.

Draco closes his mouth and stares at him in silence. In the meantime, Harry stands up and moves to the window. With his back to Draco, he raises his head a little and stares into the blackness of the sky. Suddenly his naked body is illuminated with a single candle, which he lights with a snap of his fingers. It stands on the right side of the window sill and burns with a feeble pale flame.

‘I used to have… _a boy_ ,’ Harry starts, not looking at Draco, weaving a hand through his hair. ‘A Muggle. He studied psychology.’ He waves his hand and the silver case releases one cigarette, which darts towards his mouth. As it reaches his lips, it’s already lit. ‘He liked to talk about his studies. He was especially interested in the subject of altered states of consciousness and affecting the senses. Sometimes he would even carry out minor experiments on me. Nothing major, some trifles.’ The dim flame trembles as Harry exhales, laughing quietly. ‘He liked to enter me mentally as I entered him physically.’

Draco would like to wrap himself in the duvet more tightly, but he knows he would smudge the drawing on his chest this way. So he rests his chin on his drawn-up knees and wraps his arms around them, mindful of his chest. He is trying to tell himself that he is not feeling jealous.

‘Actually, he became a source of inspiration for me,’ Potter continues. ‘I sketched him once as he was doing an experiment on himself. At that moment, he looked really… good. Not as amazing as you do, of course,’ he says, turning slightly and glancing at Draco. ‘But in a way, he helped me realise that true beauty can only be seen when it is not covered by a layer of emotion.’

Silence stretches. When exactly half of his cigarette is just ash, he speaks quietly.

‘And in truth, only you are worthy of being that _beautiful_.’

Draco opens his eyes wider and he wants to say something, but he has no idea how to respond. So he stays silent, breathing in the barely-there bitter scent coming from the one candle on the window sill.

‘I wish,’ Harry picks up suddenly extremely slowly, ‘to show you as clear as only possible. I don’t want anything drowning you out. No emotions, needless thoughts or feelings. Your whole being narrowed down to the essence of beauty, the only thing that can be seen, nothing else.’

‘I don’t think…’ Draco says and clears his throat. ‘I don’t think that’s possible. How would you…’

‘Oh, it is possible, believe me,’ Harry cuts him off. ‘There is a way. I could drag _everything_ out of you.’

Draco raises his eyebrows and gulps.

‘You could?’ he asks, though he feels he does know the answer to this question. Of course Harry could deprive him of everything if he only wanted to, even without Draco’s consent. To destroy Draco’s world - a world built of subtle drags of charcoal on paper, bitter candles, the touch of darkened fingers on bare skin, black coffee, slim cigarettes, a mirror behind a heavy curtain and low sounds of the piano - a lazy gesture would be enough, one similar to the one he uses to vanish his cigarette butts.

‘I could,’ Potter confirms. ‘I could temporarily deprive you everything.’

The word ‘temporarily’ makes Draco almost sigh with relief. For a moment there, he thought that it would be forever, that Harry would deprive him of everything and he would never be the same again, but…

He smiles broadly, although Potter can’t see it, with his back still turned, and gets out of bed. He approaches Harry and stands next to him, just as naked. He slides the cigarette out from between Harry’s fingers and into his own mouth. Potter looks at him in surprise as Draco takes a deep drag of it and stifles a cough. He pulls out the almost fully burnt cigarette and puts it out against the base of the silver candlestick. The white filter is smeared with traces of black from his lips.

‘So do it,’ he says quietly.

vVv

‘Sensory deprivation*,’ Harry says a little while later, as Draco is already next to the curtain, with his back to the mirror, Harry by the easel, twirling a long piece of charcoal between his fingers. ‘It’s called sensory deprivation. I’m going to remove the stimuli that affect your sight and your hearing.’

He snaps his fingers and suddenly Draco can’t see a thing. He only hears Harry’s breathing and a soft scratch of nails on the pencil.

‘With time, you may start having visions. Odd images. Colours. I don’t know how wizards respond to this experiment, as it was a Muggle that told me about it. But whatever you see, you mustn’t move an inch, you hear me?’

He snaps again and Draco’s vision is back. He sees Harry watching him expectantly.

‘You must not move an inch,’ he repeats.

Draco nods. Potter smiles and starts waving the charcoal around.

‘Good boy,’ he says.

He snaps his fingers and suddenly Draco is immersed in silent darkness. Harry sits on the bed and waits.

vVv

_Black. A long, long time, black._

_Small orange spots here and there. Black again._

_Among the orange spots, some blue ones start appearing, but they’re so fine and subtle, Draco can’t be sure he’s really seeing them. They penetrate the black and the orange like the veins under the thin skin of his wrist._

Harry starts sketching.

vVv

_On the backdrop of black, coloured spots arrange themselves in streaks that slowly turn into fractal shapes. But after a while the regularity blurs and only multi-coloured smudges remain, twinkling in places and billowing in the air like smoke from a slim cigarette._

Harry finishes sketching the chest, the member, the arms and the legs.

vVv

_The spots start to take shape. At first he thinks he can see an orange bird, maybe a hawk, but he isn’t sure. Then the contour becomes clearer and he can see it’s not a bird, it’s a long snake that wraps itself around a tree, its slender head hanging down. It hisses quietly - or it seems like it does to Draco - and wags its tail._

Harry finishes sketching the hands, the feet and the shape of the head.

vVv

_Long stripes of colour. Red, green, then red again, blue, green, yellow, purple, one, two, three, five, eight, green, yellow, green, Harry’s eyes are green…_

_A snake slithering along the horizon of his senses, hissing words that only Harry can understand, its clean scales glistening in the bright sunshine that has appeared out of nowhere… It slithers closer and sticks out its forked tongue to examine the taste and smell of the air, but the air is tinted with the scent of blood… Where did the blood come from?_

_Blood… Dribbling down Draco’s fingers as Harry slowly slides a dagger across Draco’s wrist, though he did say ‘No. No blood.’ But Draco wants it, Draco tells himself he likes the colour red, red, red, then green, green, green like Harry’s eyes…_

_Blurry visions and incomprehensible trails that Harry lit up with his acid candles and that Draco would not have discovered on his own, colourful stripes - all of these flash before his eyes, slithering into his mind and petting his brain with their long slim fingers, cold against the heated skin…_

_A long sound slipping from between his ears, one that does not truly exist and that seems to be coming from the very bottom of his subconscious, a sound drilling itself into a place in his thoughts which he didn’t even know existed… Didn’t know he could feel something this way…_

_Thousands of blazing suns and millions of disintegrating stars, so hard to reach, though their shine is blinding… But no, not at all, he can still see them…_

_The black scent of the night sky… Draco knows it’s black because he can feel it in its scent… Green and red certainly smell different, although he’s not sure, he’s never smelled them… Then the bitter aroma of white… and suddenly the smell disperses, leaving the air clearer, less tinted in black, more transparent…_

_Streaks of color come back to dance before his eyes, flourishing, curling and seeming chaotic, but at the same time so amazingly harmonious…_

_A torch and some tents, pitch black, night, stars. Draco doesn’t know anything apart from how the torch is burning his hands, but he keeps carrying it, he still wants to feel its warmth, as only the living are warm… A ritual dance over a mountain of greyish skulls, probably once white, but now covered by inevitable passage of time… Grey as sperm blended with charcoal…_

_An enormous viper sinks its teeth into a snake with clear scales and rips its body apart, tearing its head off and throwing it to the side. The snake is not hissing anymore…_

_Millions of glass shards… How to describe them? Glass, glassy, glossy… Gleaming, glittering, glinting… Fine glass powder, or maybe glassy, glossy? Glistening and glinting in the moonlight…_

_Coloured streaks again, binding his wrists to stop the bleeding, and Harry curses ‘Fuck’, Harry curses ‘Fuck’. Harry curses and Draco can’t, Draco only nods, because he’s a good boy…_

_A pool of blood that has collected below his bleeding wrist turns into even more glassy, glossy dust… Harry blows and the dust rises into the air, creating a breathtaking mosaic of thousands of rainbow flares reflecting in the glass shards…_

_Moans of the damned blend with the moan from Harry as he is on the edge of completion. He pants heavily and the damned howl. He inhales sharply as he comes copiously, drowning out the clanking of teeth of the souls in hell. Draco’s whole body hurts from the desire towards this incredible music that seeps into his mind, seeps in and smears itself over all his insides…_

_It’s hot. Horribly hot. The sun that fell from the sky smashed at Draco’s feet and the burning shards spilled over his feet, heating them up unbearably…_

_The viper which killed the snake slithers towards him slowly and licks the stave that breaks away from his wrist and falls into a dust of notes and thin lines floating into space. The hand returns to its original shade and the blood starts flowing again. The viper moves closer, opens its jaw and starts greedily swallowing the trickling drops. One of them dribbles down its body and creates a curious contrast of green scales and red gore. Draco has seen it before. Harry’s eyes are green and Voldemort’s are red…_

_Suddenly darkness falls and dozens of stars light up around him - some bigger and brighter, some only small dots somewhere far away. Draco is moving at an amazing speed, the stars blurring on the edges of his vision and he feels spectacular, everything flows, panta rhei**, the blood keeps dribbling, but the viper is gone… He’s about to get lost in space and he will no longer know how to return to Earth… But Harry’s not here, where is Harry, he wants to get lost with him…_

_Harry’s fingers inside him, stretching him, moistening him, making him finally feel appreciated, because he is worthy of being so beautiful, though Harry has never told him he loves him. But he does love him, doesn’t he? He does. When I’m coming with you inside me, tell me that you love me, please…_

_The lenses of the glasses reflect fire and Harry’s eyes seem to be burning, or maybe it’s Draco telling himself that his eyes are cold?… He looks at the opposite wall and smiles softly, but he doesn’t pay any mind to Draco, so Draco coils into the fetal position in the corner of the couch and pretends he isn’t there, because he doesn’t want to disturb Harry… Harry, I love you, look at me…_

_A rain of millions of gold Galleons falls to the ground and eclipses the sketching Harry. Draco scoops up the coins in handfuls and approaches his lover, asking to be shown his work and offering all of his lost wealth in return, but Harry doesn’t want to, Harry refuses, Harry says there is nothing and no one more important than his art…_

_The proud lion standing before Draco bears its fangs and sinks them into the viper and blood starts flowing from his wrist again. The viper dies and Draco is short of breath, looking at its body left at his feet. Feet so pale, they’re almost indiscernible against the light floorboards…_

_Harry’s slim cigarette and the smoke rising from it, billowing in the air, creating multi-coloured streaks, shapes and curls… Draco wants to catch them, but they slip out of his hands, accompanied by Harry’s chuckle…_

vVv

When he opens his eyes, for a moment he can’t see a thing. A distorted buzz or jabber reaches his ears. He blinks a few times and after a few seconds he gets used to the reality that surrounds him.

The sun is high in the sky. The blackness of the night is long gone. He looks at his chest and sees the slightly smudged stars and the half-moon. He licks his lips and his eyes travel to Harry.

Harry smiles at him gently. He’s sitting by the easel, twirling a piece of charcoal between his fingers.

‘What’s the time?’ Draco asks in a hoarse voice.

Harry starts chuckling quietly.

‘In ninety eight percent of the cases of people coming out of a coma, the first question to be asked is ‘What’s the time?’, did you know that?’ he says.

Draco blinks a few more times, trying to process the words.

‘But I wasn’t in a coma,’ he finally points out.

‘You weren’t,’ Potter confirms. ‘But it was an analogous state.’

He stands up and moves closer and Draco slowly inhales the bitter scent of the burning candles. Harry must have lit them when he magically deprived Draco of his sight and his hearing.

‘Did you see anything?’ When he sees Draco nod, he asks, ‘What was it?’

‘A viper. Glass. Blood. You,’ he enumerates slowly. ‘The Sun. Skulls. Stars. Streaks.’

Harry smiles, again lifting the left corner of his mouth higher that the right one.

‘It must have been amazing,’ he says. ‘Because you looked fucking beautiful.’

Draco drops his eyes and stares at his pale feet that blend with the white of the floorboards. 

‘Yes, it was amazing,’ he confirms quietly.

They stay silent for a while. Draco looks at the window sill and in one of the candlestick bases he sees a cigarette butt with black marks on the filter. He smiles to himself.

‘How is the painting?’ he asks hesitantly, tilting his head towards the easel.

‘I’ve finished.’

‘So fast?’ Draco marvels.

‘Magic does wonders,’ Potter replies and smiles tellingly.

Draco remembers the keys of the piano that rose and fell on their own, without Harry ever touching them. He smiles again.

‘May I see?’

‘No,’ Potter says firmly. ‘Not yet.’

Draco swallows and again drops his eyes to his hands, folded in his lap. He stays silent.

_‘When I’m coming with you inside me… won’t you?…’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *more on sensory deprivation: <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sensory_deprivation>  
> ** _panta rhei_ \- Greek for: ‘everything flows’, a concept in the philosophy of Heraclitus of Ephesus


	6. Chapter 6

Through a big window in his coffee shop Draco sees the first snow of the year. The soft fluff falls on the cold, grey street and melts right away. Draco smiles broadly, passing the ordered coffee to a customer and moves across the room in fast, steady paces. When he moves behind the counter, he sees Potter enter, shaking snowflakes out of his hair. They are a stark contrast against his black locks and a coat of the same colour. Draco is instantly reminded of the contrast between pale fingertips and the charcoal that darkened them and he feels embarrassed thinking about what these fingers did to him.

Harry approaches the counter, shedding his coat. He hangs it over the back of a high chair and sits down, propping his elbows on the counter top. He glances at Draco, who stands, immobile, and then he smiles at the sight. He takes a menu and flips the pages, his eyes still on Draco. Finally, he chuckles softly and starts properly browsing the booklet.

‘Cappuccino, espresso, caffe late… Potteretto.’ He sends Draco a quick glance, one sparkling with barely-hidden amusement. ‘Hmm… a Harrietto?’ he asks, raising his eyebrows. ‘Something new?’

‘Yes,’ Draco replies, blushing a little.

‘So…?’ Harry prompts. ‘What kind of coffee is that?’

Draco rests his forearms gently on the counter top and slowly bends towards the man.

‘As black as your charcoal,’ he starts, blushing deeper. ‘As bitter as the candles you love lighting so much,’ he murmurs and cuts off. After a moment he picks up in a trembling voice, reminding himself that he has been coming up with these words in his head the entire morning. ‘And as strong as your thrusts inside me.’

Harry watches him in silence. Then he rises from his seat and sets his own forearms on the counter top to the sides of Draco’s, as if he wanted to wrap him up and have him all to himself. Draco thinks that maybe that is exactly what it is and that he so wants it to be. Potter pulls in closer, so close that Draco can smell the slightly stale bitter scent of the candles that permeates his clothes.

‘I’ll have it,’ Harry whispers lowly. ‘It so happens that it’s exactly to my taste.’

vVv

Despite the passing of so many days, Potter still doesn’t let him see the painting. The easel stands in the middle of the room, covered with a dirty cloth, teasing and tantalising, but Draco knows he’s not allowed. So he watches the black charcoal stains on the dirty fabric, imagining how Harry might have drawn him. How he portrayed him. How he captured the face. The lips. The hair. The half-moon nails. The eyelashes, slightly longer towards the outer corners of the eyes. The long legs. The flat stomach.

When Harry isn’t looking, Draco tries to learn to light the candles with a snap of his fingers, but he doesn’t manage to. So he opens a box of matches and lights them with thin pieces of wood - the Muggle way, as if he wanted to punish himself for his wandless magic incompetence. On grey, snow- or still rain-filled mornings, just before setting off to work, he sits on the window sill and stares into the flickering flames as Harry sleeps in the bed under the window, looking so innocent and peaceful. Draco blows gently and looks at the fire bend under his breath. Sometimes he puts out the candles and then he notices that the stronger the flow of air over the wick, the more its tip glows, as if it wanted to live through its very last moments as intensely as possible.

Harry plays the piano when Draco wants him to. Anything. Mozart. Chopin. His own music. He improvises. He uses magic. He grasps Draco’s hands and pushes the keys with his fingers, standing behind him and pressing his chest to Draco’s back.

Sometimes he traces intricate patterns on Draco’s chest and the cigarette smoke billows around them and blends with the bitter smell of the candles. One evening Draco asks him what he’s drawing. Harry replies that he’s tracing the cuts he can see on Draco’s skin. He closes his eyes and swipes his finger quickly along Draco’s chest.

He doesn’t fuck him. He only touches Draco when he’s charting his bloody trails on him, ones which only exist in his own head. Sometimes he scratches, marking the skin with white lines that vanish after a few seconds. But it doesn’t hurt as much as Draco would like it to.

vVv

‘Do you have dreams?’ Harry asks him one day, sitting by the piano and caressing the keys with one hand while the other one is holding a cigarette.

Draco turns his head away from the snow outside the window and pulls his cheek away from the window pane. He draws his knees up closer and sets his forehead on them.

‘Everyone does,’ he replies in a muffled tone.

‘I only have one,’ Potter says quietly and his hand stills.

The flame of the candle warms Draco’s legs just a little. It’s snowing, the snowflakes swirling in the air quietly, bearing no resemblance to the thudding of the rain drops from not that long ago. Harry presses one of the keys and a terrifyingly low sound reverberates around the room.

‘Do you like pain?’ he asks as if he already knows the answer and takes a drag of the slim cigarette.

Draco straightens his legs and settles his feet against the opposite wall by the window. He’s nesting the silver candlestick between his knees.

‘You know the answer to that,’ he whispers, staring at his own ankles.

‘Maybe I want to hear it coming from you,’ Harry says firmly and presses the same key again.

Draco closes his eyes and inhales the bitter smell, which fuses with the low sound of the piano and blends with it along the edges of his perception. The composition presses itself between his senses and stays with Draco even when the deep tone finally disperses.

‘I like pain,’ he says in a somewhat trembling voice, though he knows that Harry knows that anyway.

‘But why?’ Potter asks and presses a key on the other side of the keyboard, so that now the room echoes with a high sound which, to Draco, does not go with the bitterness of the candles.

He shrugs and his eyes travel towards the window, where outside white snowflakes are swirling to the ground. He watches some of them settle against the window pane, but none of them want to slide down, so Draco can’t trace them with his finger.

‘You’re not saying anything,’ Harry says and slides the cigarette into his mouth, holding it between his teeth, and then hits the keyboard with both of his fists full-force.

High and low sounds mingle, but do not blend. They fill the room and burst into Draco’s head, making him hunch a little and turn his gaze to the white blanket of fluff covering the ground. When he draws his legs back in, his chin resting on his knees, Harry hits the keyboard again. Draco closes his eyes, his breathing quickens. Before Potter has the chance for a third hit, Draco whispers, ‘It’s like a punishment.’

He opens his eyes and glances at Harry, sees him straighten and slowly unclench his fists. The man takes the cigarette from his mouth and puts it out against one of the keys, which gives off the lowest possible sound. He snaps his fingers quietly and the ash vanishes.

‘For you joining me and being disinherited because of it,’ Potter says in a confident tone and starts stroking the keyboard with his open palms again.

‘No,’ Draco denies when the note fades. ‘For not being at your side since the very beginning.’

Harry stares at him, shocked, and his hands still.

‘And for belonging to you since only recently,’ he whispers, moving his gaze outside the window.

Silence stretches. The snow doesn’t give off any sound as it falls gently to the ground. The world outside the glass is white and nearly blinding. Here and there, the black branches of the bare trees peek from underneath the thick blanket of snowy fluff, reminding Draco of the black and white of Harry’s flat.

‘Pain is a punishment to you?’ Harry asks after a few minutes.

Draco nods.

‘But you like it even so?’ he continues, turning his head and looking at Draco where he’s sitting on the window sill.

He nods again, then wraps his arms around his drawn-up legs and closes his eyes.

‘Malfoy…’ Harry whispers incredibly quietly, but the falling snow doesn’t give off any sounds, as the rain did days ago, so the word is perfectly audible.

Draco clenches his hands into fists and rests his forehead against his knees, feeling the first waves of pain, which seep into his veins and burn inside them, spreading across his body. He opens his mouth, but he doesn’t scream, just sighs softly, trying to make the best of the short seconds he’s given. The pain is almost like billions of atoms of oxygen that run through his body along his blood vessels, giving him life. As the moment passes, the candle between his legs burns down and the flame extinguishes. Draco closes his eyes and exhales with a hiss when the pain subsides, feeling like the candle whose flame went out.

‘Malfoy,’ Harry says again, this time louder.

He throws his head back and rests it against the wall, straightening his legs more and pushing the heels of his feet against the wall. He opens his eyes, sighing and relaxing his fists, as if by doing so he could make the thin veins of his hands and fingers accept more pain. The snowfall outside the window illustrates the pace of the suffering that circulates his blood vessels, too slow, in Draco’s opinion, _much too slow_. So he rests his cheek against the window pane and watches one of the snowflakes which has settled gently on the glass.

‘Malfoy,’ Potter repeats. ‘Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy.’

The waves grow stronger and nearly drag Draco to the very bottom. With one shred of his consciousness that the pain hasn’t yet permeated - _yet_ \- he remembers the day when Harry played the piano for him for the first time. Back then he also felt himself sinking, as if the notes were all-encompassing water that drowned him and choked him, not letting him rise to the surface and catch a breath of air, but now… Now the suffering that floods him doesn’t make him suffocate, on the contrary - a lack of it would be like being underwater, where there’s no oxygen, the ultimate saviour. Where he would surely die. So he breathes in, the air still filled with the bitter scent, and holds it in his lungs, fusing it with the pain and letting the blend almost drive him out of his senses.

The word ‘Malfoy’, repeated over and over, floods into him even stronger, until finally Draco screams for the first time, the sound rising from the very centre of his lungs, which are enfolded in bitter suffering. The scream is short, lasting a mere second, as if he wanted to stifle it but the thing that is overtaking his body won't let him stay quiet. Harry speaks faster and faster, the name uttered over and over becomes barely comprehensible gabble, but still slowly, at the pace of the falling snow, it seeps under his skin, penetrates his muscles and slithers into his veins, owning his blood and running with it, as if it wanted to race the atoms of oxygen that are present within it. _It’s not fair_ , Draco thinks, pressing his right hand hard against the window, _that pain can race oxygen while I can’t do the same with the snowflakes that settle against the glass_. His hand is white with effort as he clenches it into a fist and sets it against the glass with the outside of his fingers. His nails dig deep into his palms, but he can’t feel it among the multitude of other sensations. When Harry falls silent for a moment, he manages to choke out, ‘But it’s like a reward, too.’

Potter opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. The letter ‘M’ hangs somewhere on the way between his mind and his lips, but remains unuttered.

‘A reward?’ he asks quietly after a while.

Draco draws the bitter air into his lungs, disappointed that at this moment it can’t blend with pain and is left in his body so… lonely, so _bitter_. He nods.

‘It comes from you. It’s a part of you inside me, and so it becomes a part of me, too. Mentally, not only physically.’

He glances at Harry, who’s sitting by the piano, hoping the man will recognise the words. _‘He liked to enter me mentally as I entered him physically.’_

‘I undeniably belong to you on both those levels,’ he continues. ‘And I want to feel it.’

Potter springs up from his seat and approaches Draco with quick steps. He grabs his shoulders, forcefully drags him down from the sill and pushes him to the side, setting him in front of the curtain. The burnt-down candle falls to the floor, thrown off the sill with the violent movement, and the remaining white wax spills over the floorboards, almost indiscernible against the light background. Harry presses his body against the black curtain and Draco can feel the chill of the mirror through the heavy fabric. Harry moves his hands quickly down Draco’s chest, slips them under his shirt and grabs his hips. Then he moves up, all the while staring into Draco’s eyes and his hands still on Draco’s ribs, just next to the beating heart.

‘I wish to draw you.’

Draco swallows.

‘And if pain is to be a part of you, I wish to draw you with it, Malfoy.’

Harry moves his hands from under Draco’s shirt and starts ripping his clothes off as if he wanted to see with his own eyes the pain travelling beneath the pale skin. The torn fabric hangs pathetically in shreds down Draco’s thin body and Harry claps his hands to make it vanish, as if he couldn’t concentrate on his magic enough to do it with just a glance - like so many times before.

‘Stand still, Malfoy,’ he growls.

Draco’s eyes, half-lidded from maddening and ecstatic pain, register Potter wave his arms, focus all his magic there and summon the easel from the corner of the room. The easel darts across the room at record speed and comes to a halt dangerously close to his body. He tears the dirty cloth away violently, revealing a blank piece of paper. Draco breathes deeply, gazing at him and admiring the primal character of the magic he’s drawing from. He knows that at this moment Harry is incapable of doing magic with just a glance, a gesture of his hand or a whispered spell and if he were to pick up a wand, it would surely snap under the pressure of such massive magical energy. He sighs softly as the pain slowly subsides, as if flowing out of his lungs with the acrid air, and he opens his eyes wider.

‘I’m going to draw you, Malfoy,’ Potter murmurs angrily and picks up two long pieces of charcoal.

Draco tries not to squeeze his eyes shuts because he wants to keep watching Harry, but he throws his head back and rests it against the curtain. The cold of the glass penetrates the fabric and chills him, sharpening his senses and making the pain in the back of his head crystal clear and perfectly discernible as it flows through his veins.

The snap of charcoal breaking echoes in the silence, otherwise undisturbed by sounds, as the falling snow is so much quieter than the rain that drowned everything out so many days ago.

Draco opens his eyes and looks at Potter, who breaks the pencil in his hands and rubs pieces of it between his fingers. He comes up to Draco’s naked body with… hunger?… in his eyes and starts sliding his pitch black hands across Draco’s chest, looking straight into his eyes. Draco breathes heavily and doesn’t tear his eyes away from the man.

‘You’ll make my dream come true, Malfoy,’ Harry murmurs, squeezing his fingers on both sides of Draco’s chest, nearly crushing his ribs.

Draco moans as more waves of pain slither into his veins and start racing the ones that Harry poured in there earlier. _It’s beautiful_ , he thinks, _that pain can race itself, like rain drops once did on the window pane._

Potter’s hands reach Draco’s neck and he strokes it with the tips of his fingers. He cradles Draco’s face, pulling it closer to his own and right before he brings their mouths together, he murmurs harshly, ‘Malfoy.’

Draco wants to moan, but he can’t, too preoccupied with the kissing. He feels the man’s fingers dart across his face, drawing dark trails, but the touch is only one of the many stimuli that hit him, so he doesn’t dwell on it. Harry suddenly breaks apart from him, steps back and approaches the easel. He picks up a piece of charcoal and turns it in his hands, speaking quietly.

‘I wish to draw your pain, contrasting your beauty.’ He takes a deep breath and adds, ‘Malfoy.’

Draco bites down on his lower lip and sighs heavily, clenching his hands into fists. He feels as if his blood is so saturated with pain that it’s changed colour from red to dark green, just like the dark green that flashed at the tip of Lucius’ wand as he cast the disinheriting spell. He thinks that maybe it’s not a bad fate after all, that his blood would be much more beautiful if it were to change colour. With this tiny shred of consciousness that the pain hasn’t yet permeated - _but is drowning it out more and more and soon will drive him out of his senses entirely_ \- Draco registers the quiet sound of charcoal on paper. He cracks his eyes open, his gaze landing on the white ceiling and listens intently to the soft scratching.

‘You’re going to be the same, all in all. Naked, black trails drawn on your pale skin, standing by the curtain. But these images will be identical and completely different at the same time. I want to manage to do this. And I can only succeed with you, Malfoy. I’m certain that no one else would be able to be so beautiful in pain and so amazing without it, being one and the same person all the while.’

The pain blending with the dark green memory of disinheritance and the black charcoal on his chest. The bitter smell of the burning candles. The scratch of the pencil darting across the paper. Flashes of the black piano opposite between blinks. The snow falling outside the window. The sky that grows steadily darker. The shiver of the primal magic that fills the room and feeds Harry as he draws. The memory of the piano keys rising and falling. The cigarette smoke weaving itself into Harry’s tangled hair. The smell of black coffee between deep breaths and harsh ‘Malfoy’s repeated over and over. The minutes passing, measuring the shreds of pain travelling in his veins. The bitter air. The dark sky. The candles. Harry. Magic. Piano. Charcoal. Pain. Paper. Malfoy. Veins. Painting. Cigarette. Harry. M…

‘I’ve finished,’ Potter says.

The words are so different from his name, which he kept hearing over and over as Harry drew, that at first Draco can’t even comprehend them. He opens his eyes and sees Potter staring at the painting with the most honest smile that has ever graced his lips. His eyes are nearly burning and his whole body seems completely different, _happier_ than ever since they got together. When his eyes move to Draco, they seem to be filled with completion, perfect harmony, complete satiation.

‘Just like Friedrich,’ Potter whispers hotly and starts chuckling quietly, staring at the image again.

Draco is suddenly hit with the awareness of how exhausted he is. He drops to the floor and leans with his back against the curtain. He feels the chill of the glass through the fabric again, but he pays it no mind, focusing on evening out his breathing and setting all other thoughts aside. _Breath. One. Two. Three. Again. Breath._ He closes his eyes, tilting his head back and resting it against the curtain. He sets his hands flat on the floor and gently taps with the index finger of his left hand, raising it with every inhale and bringing it down on each exhale.

‘I love you,’ he says blankly, as if unknowingly, catching another breath, which are growing more and more difficult to control, and then he faints.

vVv

When he comes to in the morning, he’s in bed. On his left shoulder, he feels a warm hand and soft brushes of lips now and again. The sky outside the window is light grey and almost blinding when he stares at it for too long. The first deep breath fills his lungs with a burning sensation and his aching muscles refuse to cooperate when he wants to pull himself up. A hand splays itself flat on his chest.

‘Be still.’

He turns his head and meets green eyes that gaze at him attentively. He swallows and wants to open his mouth to say something, but Harry immediately puts a finger on his lips and adds quietly, ‘Don’t speak. Listen.’

He closes his eyes, trying to focus on the silence around them but then a completely different sound reaches him. Tiny rain drops thud softly against the window pane and the tin drainpipe. He smiles a little.

‘Rain,’ Harry says and kisses him gently.

vVv

They spend the days filled with snow, rain and sometimes a clear sky in the coffee shop and in Harry’s flat. Draco doesn’t look at any of the two paintings he posed for. Although Potter didn’t explicitly forbid it, he doesn’t even try to peek under the stained fabric thrown over the easel that stands in the corner of the room. However tempted he is by the prospect of the punishment Harry could inflict on him for even one touch of the easel, he always stops himself.

Potter plays the piano for him again, smokes slim cigarettes, drinks black coffee and doesn’t make love to him. They sleep in one bed, staring at the sky when they can’t fall asleep. They inhale the bitter scent of the candles, which Harry seems to be lighting with just a thought, as the wick sometimes simply catches fire and he doesn’t even seem surprised by it. But they don’t touch each other more than is necessary to cuddle before sleep. Draco doesn’t feel hands slide against his protruding ribs, his breath doesn’t speed up in reaction to a slow tapping of a rhythm on his pale skin, a rhythm that exists only in Harry’s head. The only thing that connects them on any erotic level is sharing the same air as they breathe lying face to face.

He’s even more aching and happy than the previous time he stayed over with Potter for a few days to regain his strength. He wanders slowly across the flat, trying to get his whole body to move, as if he wanted to bring back the echo of the suffering that flooded him as the second drawing was being created. He closes his eyes, leans against walls, feeling their chill on his back and moves his spread arms against them as if their roughness could quell his longing. For Harry, who is still near, and for the pain, which he hasn’t felt in many snow-white days.

vVv

Draco steps barefoot on the floor, watching the pale skin of his feet blend with the white of the floorboards. Harry stands behind him, propping his chin on Draco’s shoulder. He sets his hands flat on Draco’s hips and nudges Draco’s legs with his knees, pushing him towards the piano. He sits down on the stool, pulling Draco down to straddle his lap with his back to the instrument. He presses a random key and the room fills with a low sound.

‘Will you play something for me?’ Draco asks, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck.

‘No, you will play for me,’ Potter murmurs softly.

He snaps his fingers, the stool turns around and now Harry is sitting back to the piano. Draco stares at him, surprised.

‘But I can’t,’ he says quietly.

‘But I can,’ Potter replies.

He wraps his arms around Draco tightly and smiles, and Draco feels that his hands rise and settle on the keyboard all on their own. His index finger presses one of the keys, although the thought of moving it hasn’t even crossed his mind. He watches his own hands as they touch the piano and slide across it slowly. His eyes travel to Potter, who smiles, the left corner of this mouth a little higher than the right one, and suddenly it hits him: Harry is magically controlling his hands. The awareness that Harry’s power doesn’t only cover his mind, but also reaches into his pale body, makes him marvel and feel amazingly dependent and incredibly dominated. He moans quietly, still staring at the man and then he feels he’s beginning to play. His fingers wander across the keyboard. The keys under his fingertips are smooth and cold, but when Draco - or rather, Potter, with Draco’s hands - speeds up, he stops focusing on the sensations and starts taking in the music that is born not only under his fingers, but also in Harry’s mind. The melody is dynamic, but full of low tones, which penetrate Draco and stay inside him long after his hands still and the last sounds fade.

The rain outside the window thuds against the glass as if attempting to prolong the music. Draco closes his eyes and rests his head on Potter’s shoulder, feasting on the bitter smell permeating the air. He feels Harry’s hands slither under his shirt, so he purrs quietly, snuggling harder into the warm body. As they rise together, Draco’s feet touch the light floorboards, but he’s not watching their similar shades blend, too preoccupied with returning the slow kisses. They make for the bed and fall onto it without breaking the kiss, and Potter immediately immobilises Draco’s wrists, holding them above his head. They pull apart to catch their breaths. Harry releases Draco’s hands, kneels between his spread thighs and slides his hands over the pale skin. He reaches Draco’s chest and starts unbuttoning the white shirt. As the shirt opens, Draco makes to sit up and take it off, but Potter shakes his head. So Draco falls back onto the bed, stretching his arms more over his head, setting his fingertips against the floor and watches Harry as he hovers over him. Harry has never before seemed more beautiful than at this very moment - undoing the buttons on his own shirt, smiling lazily, the left corner of this mouth a little higher than the right one. When Potter slowly pulls towards him and makes their chests brush, Draco clenches his hands into fists and hits his knuckles against the floor. The hard press of Harry’s naked body is so different from the feel of the thin fabric of the shirt that still covers Draco’s shoulders. He lets his wrists be gripped again and pressed against the ground.

‘Your hands are so pale…’ Harry starts quietly. ‘As pale as your feet. Almost indiscernible against the light floorboards.’

Draco sighs softly and tilts his head back, trying to look at this own hands. Still, despite the bed being very low, he can’t see the white of his skin blend with the white of the floor.

‘You’re perfection incarnated,’ Potter adds, gripping his wrists harder. ‘Perfection incarnated. Look at me.’

Draco obediently moves his gaze to Harry’s green eyes.

‘Do you know who you are?’ he asks.

‘Perfection incarnated,’ Draco replies.

‘Yes.’ He grins. ‘Who else?’

‘I am someone else?’ Draco frowns, surprised, wondering what answer Potter is expecting.

‘Oh, certainly. Perfection incarnated. A walking work of art. My model,’ he enumerates and falls silent. The silence that surrounds them is broken by the sleet thudding against the window panes. ‘You’re my personal comet,’ he adds, suddenly serious. ‘I couldn’t get lost in space because you’d always be there. A sungrazing comet,’ he says firmly and kisses Draco.

The kiss is harsh and angry, almost punishing, but Draco returns it nonetheless. But as Harry pulls away to breathe, Draco turns his head to the side and looks at the opposite wall, where dark wooden shelves occupy a small section of the wall just next to the painting, strewn with all kinds of books.

‘A comet…’ he starts faintly and clears his throat. ‘Where did this metaphor come from?’

Potter rests his forehead on Draco’s chest.

‘I have been inside your body, so why would I deny myself being inside your mind, too?’

Before the full significance of the words hits him, Draco feels the pressure on his wrists vanish and Harry’s hands start sliding impatiently across his chest, finally reaching his stomach. When Draco wants to reply, Harry snaps his fingers, depriving him of his voice. He smiles softly, almost innocently, and slowly undoes the button on Draco’s trousers and starts unzipping them. When he sees Draco open his mouth, but unable to make a sound, he laughs quietly.

‘You belong to me, don’t you? You want to be mine both physically and mentally, you said so yourself.’

Draco closes his eyes and releases all the air from his lungs. He lies still for a few seconds until his lungs start burning so much, he has to start breathing again. He raises his hands and brings them over his head, nodding and wrapping them around Potter’s neck. He pulls him in and kisses him with his eyes still closed. Potter returns the kiss and slips down Draco’s trousers and boxer shorts. As Draco finally opens his eyes, he feels his underwear vanish and his trousers rip at the crotch. The trouser legs still cover his legs, but his hips are bare.

Harry smiles his characteristic crooked smile and grabs Draco’s feet, setting them on his own shoulders. He looks down at his own trousers and they immediately disappear.

‘I’ve mentioned that you have beautiful legs, haven’t I? And that you look fucking amazing in these tight black jeans of yours?’ he asks, though they both know he knows the answers to these questions very well. Still, Draco nods, though he wishes he could answer with words, but the spell that deprived him of his voice is still in place. ‘I’ve never seen legs more beautiful,’ Potter adds.

He raises his eyebrows a little and a small bottle of lubricant shoots out of the small cupboard by the easel and darts towards his open hand. He pours some of the liquid onto his palm and slides one finger inside Draco. Draco bites down on his lower lip and keeps staring into Potter’s eyes as another finger enters him carefully. He swallows and raises his hips, wanting to feel more pressure. But Harry shakes his head.

‘No, today I won’t cause you any pain. I don’t want anything to disrupt your perfection and mar your beauty.’

Draco feels he has regained his voice, so he swallows again and speaks.

‘But promise me that this is the last time without it.’

Harry laughs quietly.

‘Yes,’ he assures, and Draco’s lips stretch in a wide smile. ‘It’s the last time.’

He slips in a third finger and bends them all inside Draco. Draco raises his hips and presses his feet against Harry’s shoulders. He moans quietly when Potter pulls away a little, but a moment later he can feel himself being entered. He crosses his ankles at the back of Harry’s neck and Potter chuckles softly, moving in and out. Their movements are harmonious and deep, as if they complete each other and fit in together. Yin and yang, white and black, snow and rain, Draco and Harry.

They inhale the bitter scent of the burning candles, still seeking connection. The fabric of Draco’s shirt shrouds his shoulders and the trouser legs still cover his legs, but he has never felt as naked as right at this moment. Harry’s eyes travel along his body, watching his stomach muscles clench, his arms wrapped around him, his open thighs and the black fabric of the trouser legs contrasting with the pale skin. Harry’s thrusts deepen, penetrating farther and Draco closes his eyes, arches and tries to bring their chests together, feeling his own legs getting in the way. The smooth skin gives off warmth, so he heaves a lengthy sigh and snuggles harder into Harry’s body. Potter falls onto Draco with all of his weight and the thrusts become shallower. He breathes out through his mouth and the piano, silent so far, suddenly makes a sound and starts playing on its own. Draco knows the melody; it’s the one Potter played for Draco the first time. He remembers how he felt that day - as if drowning in an ocean of sound Harry pulled him into. The low tones seep into his mind and blend with the bitter smell of the burning candles and Potter’s dark hair. Draco draws in a hissing breath and the sound fuses with the music.

Then suddenly, he realises that the melody is no longer the same as before. It’s slightly different from the previous version, it’s more dynamic, more elevated, harder. Some notes indeed hurt him, entering his mind harshly and drilling into his whole being. He realises that Harry is making up the lack of physical pain to him with mental pain, flowing with the music. So he smiles and opens his eyes to look at the man lying heavily on him.

It’s not the first time he realises how beautiful the man is. His pale complexion contrasts beautifully with the dark of his hair, his full lips are invitingly parted, his pupils blown and covering the green of the irises almost entirely. His skin is smooth, his hands slightly bony, now splayed flat to the sides of Draco’s head, thin wrists and long fingers, their knuckles protruding as he clenches them into fists. His nails are always evenly trimmed, the long, thin plates filed into half-circles. There is nothing about him that would break the harmony of the whole; even the thin diagonal scar, stretching from his navel to the left side of his ribs is part of the perfection.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Draco whispers.

Harry shakes his head, laughing.

‘No,’ he counters. ‘You are.’ He falls silent for a moment, then adds as if talking to himself, ‘Sweetly amazing boy.’

Draco throws his head back and moans in response to a deeper thrust.

‘And you’re bitterly perfect,’ he says, glancing at the candles that burn on the window sill.

Potter smiles, looking in the same direction.

‘Touché,’ he murmurs lowly.

He is trying to be gentle, but apparently he can’t stop the more violent movements. He enters Draco hard over and over again, picking up speed, and Draco tries to meet his thrusts. Their movements are in sync with the music, which is also becoming faster. Draco fleetingly wonders whether they’re racing the piano or the piano’s racing them, but before he has the chance to properly consider this, Potter stills and squeezes his eyes shut and the instrument stops playing. His eyelids tremble and his arms, which he’s using to support his weight, bend slightly. He lifts one hand from the mattress and grips Draco’s leg, sliding it off his own shoulder and bringing it around his hip. Then he does the same with the other one.

‘Wrap yourself around my waist. I want to feel the press of your beauty on my body.’

Draco obeys, crosses his ankles and starts rubbing his right heel against the dent in Harry’s spine just above his buttocks. Harry opens his eyes and smiles softly, entering him again, and the music starts anew. Now Draco can finally feel the warmth of Potter’s chest pressing against his own. So he takes in the light smoothness and raises his hips, accepting more of him inside.

They’re both close to the edge. Their moves are fast but still coordinated. Their quickened breaths are in sync with the notes of the melody and blend when they hold their faces close to each other, sharing the bitter air and staring into the other's eyes. The clouded grey seeps into the dark green, almost black now, creating a fusion like rain drops on the grass. When Potter comes, Draco clenches his teeth and follows him, submitting to the reality around him - the acid air, Harry’s pale body and the music that sounds its final notes as the lowest and the highest tones blend and reverberate together.

Harry is still resting on him, huffing warm breaths on his skin. He slips out of Draco’s body but doesn’t change their position. They close their eyes and melt into each other. After a few silent minutes Draco asks in a sleepy voice, ‘Do you love me, Harry?’

As the silence stretches unnaturally, Potter feels the body underneath him stiffen, awaiting a reply. He opens his mouth and kisses Draco’s neck.

‘You know,’ he murmurs quietly. ‘Deep inside your heart, you can feel the answer.’

But Draco doesn’t want to enter his own self when Harry’s heart is so close, beating loud and clear. He would like to be able to tear into Harry’s chest and look at the organ, as if the answer to his question was there, written perhaps in ancient runes or a Celtic language. He thinks to himself that he knows runes from Hogwarts, so he would have no trouble reading the inscription on Potter’s heart. But before he has the time to say anything, he feels himself growing extremely tired. He falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go... how will it all end, you think...?


	7. Chapter 7

The morning is bitter, blinding white and painless. As Draco opens his eyes, his gaze lands on the pale ceiling. He swallows and looks to the side. The man lying next to him has his eyes closed and is breathing evenly. His lips are slightly parted, his hair in complete disarray. Draco smiles and immediately realises he did just as Harry does - the left corner of his mouth a little higher than the right one. The thought makes his smile grow and he has to bite down on his lower lip to stop himself from chuckling. Crinkling his eyes, he looks at the window. The colour of the bright sky reminds him of ash, the snow falling like pieces of burnt paper.

After a few seconds, he perceives that the piano is playing quietly. Much quieter than yesterday, barely audible, in fact, but the rise and fall of the keys is clear proof that Draco is not making this up. He closes his eyes and focuses on the soft melody, which carefully enfolds the room, slowly seeping into every nook and corner. Though the notes aren’t as bold as they always are when Potter plays for him, their tenderness reminds him of the day before. For a moment, he marvels at the magnitude of Harry’s power and what it could grow to be if today the man can already play an instrument in his sleep. It also crosses his mind that maybe the music is a reflection of Harry’s dreams, as subtle, quiet, safe and fleeting as the melody.

Suddenly the instrument sounds the lowest note, sending it reverberating around the room. Harry trembles and immediately opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling.

‘Merlin,’ he murmurs, but his voice is filled with terror. He looks at Draco and reaches out his arm, then with his finger he draws a long straight line from Draco’s neck to his navel. ‘No one has destroyed you. No one has marred your beauty,’ he says quietly.

Draco frowns and shifts closer, pulling the duvet tighter over them both.

‘Who would?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know.’ Potter shrugs. ‘But they cut you right here,’ he tilts his head at the line he traced, ‘and I was lying here and couldn’t do anything.’ He’s silent for a while and his eyes travel to the window. ‘My bed was soiled with your blood again.’

Draco closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Harry’s chest. He can feel it rise with Harry’s even but quickened breath.

‘I don’t like the colour red,’ he says quietly.

‘Me neither,’ says Potter. He embraces Draco and adds, ‘I prefer black.’

‘What about white?’ Draco asks, drawing irregular circles around Potter’s right nipple.

‘No,’ Harry replies. ‘White is dead.’

Silence floods the room like the pale light of a winter dawn. Suddenly one of the candles on the floor by the curtain lights up and starts burning quietly, and a single cigarette shoots out of the silver case and darts across the room to slip gently between Harry’s lips. The tip glows orange as Potter inhales the smoke.

‘Your cigarettes are white,’ Draco says tentatively.

‘They’ll kill me one day,’ Harry replies and chuckles quietly. ‘White is dead,’ he adds, as if ironically quoting himself.

Draco shakes his head and plants a gentle kiss on the diagonal scar on the left side of the ribs, half-closing his eyes. He wraps his arms around Harry and listens to the falling snow. It’s much quieter than the rain. Some white snowflakes settle on the window pane, adorning it. He swallows and looks at the paining on the opposite wall.

‘Monet, right?’ he asks carefully, gazing at the image.

Potter takes the cigarette out of his mouth and looks in the same direction.

‘That’s right,’ he says quietly.

Draco nods. Harry pushes him off himself and rolls him on his back, then bends over him and stares into the painting. He flicks his cigarette and the ash falls onto Draco’s bare stomach. Draco draws in a breath, watching the grey powder, which reminds him of snowflakes on a window. When it occurs to him that, analogically, he himself is like a pane of glass, he smiles and sighs softly. The air moved with his breath shifts the ash and some of it falls down to the sheets.

‘It’s the original,’ Potter suddenly says, his eyes back on Draco.

Draco looks at Harry and seeing his serious look, asks incredulously, ‘The original? It’s not a copy?’

‘No,’ Harry replies and smiles, the left corner of his mouth a little higher than the right one again. ‘I wanted to buy a Friedrich, but the owners of the three paintings that are not part of museum collections didn’t want to sell.’ He falls silent for a moment. ‘I offered a lot of money to them,’ he says quietly. ‘But apparently they’re also aware that Friedrich is priceless.’

Draco takes a deep breath and looks back at the painting hanging on the opposite wall. Its blueish hues make him feel calm, but the black outlines of the boats and the people draw his eyes and don’t let him consider it boring. Peaceful, in a way, yes, maybe a little melancholic, but, Draco can say with a clear conscience - truly _beautiful_.

‘Blue, right?’ Potter says unexpectedly and chuckles quietly. ‘Like the veins inside your wrist.’

‘You said they were like water from Monet’s ‘Impression’,’ Draco remarks quietly, looking at Harry.

‘Well, well, well, you remembered,’ he murmurs and grins, baring almost all of his teeth. ‘Good boy,’ he adds.

Draco turns his head and stares at his own hands. He’s trying to stop the smile that’s threatening to stretch his lips, but he can’t, so he gives up. He laughs quietly and bites down on his lower lip when Potter glances at him suspiciously, rolling the cigarette between the fingers of his left hand.

‘What is it?’ he asks.

‘Nothing. It’s just that I remember everything you say to me,’ Draco replies, shrugging.

‘Everything?’ Potter’s voice is much lower and quieter than a few seconds ago.

‘I think so.’

‘Quote anything I’ve ever said, then.’

Draco takes a deep breath and looks at the Monet. Then he starts speaking.

‘You look like a walking work of art. You are so perfect, you should be locked up in a glass display case, like at a doll museum or something, so that your perfect body can be watched for hours on end. Lock the door and throw away the key, so that you can never flee. So that you can be looked at, admired, sketched, worshiped.’

He hears Harry inhale loudly, but before he gets a chance to say anything, Draco sits up, swallows and speaks again.

‘Everyone that I know, I have seen covered in blood. You’re lying next to me now and I can see my bed soiled with your blood.’

One of the books on the shelf next to the painting Draco is staring at falls to the floor. He blinks at the thud of the tome against the floorboards, which reverberates through the quiet room unnaturally loudly. He wraps the duvet around his legs more tightly and continues.

‘I would look up at them every night, yearning to touch them. To rise up in the air and fly so far as to leave Earth behind and not know which way to go to return. To know that no compass and no wand could help me. That the nearest other person is not a few hundred, but a few hundred billion miles away and that I am alone. Completely alone.’ He stops for a moment. ‘Being alone, being lonely on Earth is impossible, really,’ he finishes, staring at the painting.

The piano gives off the lowest possible note. After a few seconds the highest one joins in, creating a stark contrast, which floods the room like the rays of sunrise.

‘Is this what you’re looking at? You’re remembering yesterday evening. Thinking about these fingers inside you. You’d like to feel them again, wouldn’t you? I know you would. I know how much you love it.’

He bows his head and lets his blond hair fall around his face. He’s aware that his addiction to Harry has reached a point where he couldn’t agree to break off this relationship. But he also knows that what they have is special, irreplaceable and that neither of them would let it end _just like that_. He feels the slight shiver of Potter’s magic and again marvels at its primal character, and also the immense power it carries, feeling himself loving Harry even more at this moment. Another book falls from the shelf and thuds against the floor. The piano falls silent abruptly, but the pieces of paper filled with music notes keep rustling softly on the rack. Draco realises that these are the same notes that Harry brought into the coffee shop every day - the place where everything started between them.

‘How on Earth are you able to quote these words with such precision?’ Potter suddenly asks, intrigued.

‘I simply have a good memory,’ Draco replies, shrugging and smiling a little. ‘At Hogwarts I never had to study, I remembered everything said in class.’

Potter moves closer to him, grips him by the jaw and tilts his head up, looking into his eyes. The hand Draco’s chin is propped on is holding a half-burnt cigarette. The white filter brushes Draco’s cheek gently. Harry gives a slow nod and Draco gulps and starts speaking again, quietly.

‘I wish to draw you. And if pain is to be a part of you, I wish to draw you with it…’ he stops, letting the silence back in for two light-year-long seconds, ‘Malfoy,’ he ends in a whisper.

Harry holds still for a moment, but after a while he brushes Draco’s fringe off his forehead with a lazy motion and pushes a few blond strands of hair behind Draco’s ear.

‘Does it hurt?’ he asks gently.

‘No,’ Draco answers in the same tone. ‘It doesn’t work that way, you have to be the one to say it. I can’t, by myself… Without you, I won’t manage,’ he adds almost pathetically.

His gaze shifts from Potter’s one eye to the other, admiring their deep shade of green. Up close like this, he notices a few light grey spots in the irises, strewed thinly along the edges. The bright light of the morning seeps into the room lazily and illuminates Harry face, making his pupils constrict, small black dots in a vastness of green.

‘So maybe pain is the only thing you’ll have left of me…’ he says in a low voice, pulling closer. He makes their mouths touch, half-closing his eyes, but doesn’t kiss him, allowing only a brush of lips as fleeting as mist. ‘Malfoy,’ he adds on the exhale, the word so quiet it’s almost inaudible.

Draco throws his head back, taking in the pain and then moves to lie on his back again. The cold sheet caresses his skin and the duvet almost slips from his hips, but Harry catches it with a deft move and sets it gently on Draco’s stomach. When Draco opens his eyes and looks up, Potter chuckles quietly, hovering over him. Draco looks at him and sees the black of his hair carving into the white of the ceiling and the pale skin illuminated with morning sunshine. Harry props himself up on the bed with one hand and with the other, he slips the slim cigarette into his mouth and inhales the smoke. He takes the cigarette out and still looking into Draco’s eyes, he smiles this crooked smile of his that Draco would recognise anytime, anywhere - the left corner of his mouth a little higher than the right one. He holds the cigarette between his index and his middle fingers and starts bringing it closer to Draco’s chest. Draco gulps, watching the tip get closer and closer, ready to touch his pale torso, which is unblemished - contrary to Potter’s, whose chest is adorned with a long diagonal scar - and in a moment, Draco is going to feel… just a few more inches, a few more seconds… and he will feel and _see_ the pain, and maybe there will be a mark left, the final IMPRINTSIGNSYMBOLPROOF of him belonging to Harry, but...

Before the cigarette touches his chest, a glass ashtray suddenly appears on his stomach, reflecting the sun rays that flood through the window. Potter presses the filter into it and crushes it hard with his thumb, his eyes sending Draco an equally hard look. As the chill of the ashtray penetrates Draco’s skin, bringing another contrast, he remembers how this very morning he compared himself to glass as he watched snowflakes settling on a window pane and cigarette ash spilling gently onto his stomach. He feels a small smile stretch his lips and he reaches his hand out to tangle it in Harry’s hair, black as the night sky.

Potter heaves a long sigh, sending the remnants of the cigarette flying from the ashtray and suddenly all the candles in the room start burning. The bitter smell slowly oozes into the room, making Draco think of faraway lands where there is no magic, no war and no disinheritance. Where there is only Harry and his art.

  


vVv

In the evenings, the snow seems to glisten with blue, as if it wanted to liken itself to the water it is created from, though it is superior to it in every way, after all. Maybe if one were to freeze Monet’s ‘Impression’, the painting would become even more beautiful.

Or maybe not. Maybe all that matters is the charcoal that adorns the pale face. Maybe all that matters is the paper whose colour is reminiscent of the whiteness of snow in morning light.

Maybe nothing matters. Maybe Earth is only one of the water drops in ‘Impression’. Or maybe ‘Impression’ is only a drop of art. Maybe all that matters are stars, so far away that no one can reach them.

Maybe Draco’s hand, extended shyly, his fingers entwining with Harry’s, doesn’t matter. Or maybe it matters the most. Maybe no one knows.

Dusk approaches among the evening fog, it’s getting darker and the first stars start shimmering in the dark blue sky. All around, there are bare tree branches covered with snowy fluff and the bench they pass by as they walk seems to be on verge of falling apart from just being seen. The thin layer of snow covering it only adds to the effect.

Chill enfolds their bodies, seeping in through their clothes, too light for the current season. Their entwined fingers are cold, as neither of them wears gloves. Harry is gazing into the sky and doesn’t even seem to remember the presence of the other one, but nevertheless, Draco thinks that this is how he’d like to spend each evening for the rest of his life. He breathes in the air, which smells of winter, and looks ahead, trying to see anything though the fog that surrounds them.

Suddenly Potter stops and moves to stand in front of him. His lips crook in a gentle smile and immediately there’s a slim cigarette in his hand. He slides it into his mouth and the tip glows orange. He winks and takes a few steps back. When Draco wants to follow him, he discovers he can’t move. He’s doing his best to make even one step forward, but his legs feel as if they were made of lead - heavy and immovable.

In the meantime, Harry steps back further, still looking at him. He takes a long drag of his cigarette and when he releases the air, the smoke billows and blends in with the fog. He raises his hand, looking up and with his index finger, he starts drawing winding lines in the air, probably once again linking the stars with invisible threads.

‘Harry,’ Draco says quietly. ‘Let me move.’

Potter just shakes his head and raises his other hand. The tip of the cigarette in his left hand is clearly visible against the background of the sky, which grows darker and darker. Draco closes his eyes, wishing to smell the bitterness that seems to have blended itself permanently into the very being of Harry, but he must be standing too far away for Draco to smell anything.

‘I can’t,’ he replies. ‘You’re too beautiful when you stand still.’

As Draco opens his eyes, he sees Potter approach him with slow steps. When he’s close, Draco inhales his smell and stares into the green irises hidden behind glasses. In the feeble night light they seem much darker than they really are and remind him of the flash of the spell that lit up the ground as Lucius disinherited him.

‘You know what would be even more amazing?’ Harry suddenly asks, pulling closer and taking a drag of the cigarette right in front of Draco’s face. ‘I’ve been inside your head, Draco. I’ve seen what would be more beautiful to you if it changed its colour.’

He slips the cigarette between his lips and holds it between his teeth, then grasps Draco’s hand and turns it palm up. He presses his index finger to the wrist and drags it slowly across the skin. Dark green blood, which seems almost black in the darkness, starts oozing slowly, strikingly dark against Draco’s pale complexion.

‘I love contrast,’ Harry whispers, staring at Draco’s hand. ‘But it’s just an illusion,’ he adds more loudly and pulls away while the wound immediately vanishes. ‘Everything’s an illusion. Maybe neither of us really exists?’

He steps back and turns his back to Draco. He raises his hands and stands on tiptoe. The cigarette in his left hand is half-burnt.

‘Maybe the sky isn’t really far above us, but so close that we’re all swimming in it? Maybe it’s impossible to drown in it? Or maybe…’ he cuts off and drops his hands. His heels are on the ground again, he bows his head and his next words are so quiet, they’re almost incomprehensible. ‘Maybe even the sky is an illusion?’

Somewhere in the distance an owl hoots, but quickly falls silent. Silence stretches between them, enfolding them like the bitter scent that Draco can’t smell anymore, because Harry is too far away again.

‘Everything is an illusion?’ he asks.

Harry turns to look at him.

‘I don’t know,’ he replies simply.

Draco draws in a breath, the air filled with the scent of snow and cigarette smoke. He wants to move, but all the while he’s unable to, so he stands still.

‘But if that’s so,’ Potter starts slowly, ‘then art is an illusion, too. And Friedrich. Monet. Myself.’ He stops and looks up at the sky again. ‘And you,’ he adds. ‘You’re an illusion, too, like all the others before you.’

He takes a step forward and takes a drag of the cigarette, which is now three-fourths burnt. Draco looks at the glowing orange tip as Harry releases air from his lungs and tries to forget the man’s last words. He doesn’t want to accept that there were _others_ before him. He wants to be the only person who belongs to Harry.

‘You’re the most beautiful model I’ve ever had, you know?’ Potter asks quietly, turning his back again. ‘You’ve helped me make my dreams come true and I’ll be thankful to you for it for as long as you’re aware of it.’ He chuckles quietly and tilts his head back as if he wanted to see even more of the sky. ‘Just let me finish this cigarette, all right?’ he says half-teasingly, half-ironically. He bends back even more and is now looking at Draco upside down. When he sees Draco nod, he chuckles again and his Adam’s apple trembles slightly. ‘Do you love me?’ he asks, still amused, and takes a drag of the cigarette, which is becoming shorter and shorter.

‘I do love you,’ Draco confirms and smiles a little.

Harry winks at him and raises his head, then turns to face him again. Draco can feel his whole body tingle and suddenly, without meaning to, he takes two steps forward. Harry moves closer to him and folds his arms, still holding the cigarette in his left hand.

‘Why?’ he asks and tilts his head, looking very curious.

Draco takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but he has no idea what to say. He shrugs and closes his eyes for a moment. When after a few seconds of silence, he cracks his eyes open, Harry is still looking at him.

‘Because we’re both an illusion?’ he says somewhat questioningly.

Potter frowns and a distraught expression appears on his face. He swallows and takes a slow drag of his cigarette. He flicks it with his finger, tapping away the ash and is still giving Draco a strange look.

‘Yes, perhaps that’s why,’ he says quietly. ‘But what if we’re not?’ he adds.

Draco thinks Harry has never been that serious when talking to him. He loves the quiet chuckle, the ironic smile, the raised eyebrows, the billowing smoke Harry would rather watch than look at him. But now his whole attention is on Draco and he’s looking genuinely intrigued.

‘If we’re not an illusion,’ he starts slowly, ‘then everything that has happened between us is…’ he squeezes his eyes shut, knowing that even if everything around them is merely a hallucination, then his words are true nonetheless, ‘…real.’

Harry narrows his eyes. He brings the cigarette close to his mouth, but then looks down at it and after a moment of deliberation, pulls it away.

‘Or maybe what’s real is the blood I see every day,’ he says, still looking at the cigarette butt in his hand. ‘And everything else is deception. Maybe the real world is the one where people burst in the streets, flooding the pavement with their blood and the charcoal and the mirrors are just a figment of my imagination.’ He stops for a moment. ‘Maybe my bed really is soiled with your blood, and all my works are just an illusion.’

Fine snow starts falling, sprinkling Harry’s dark hair with white, creating another contrast. He doesn’t seem to notice, however, still staring at the cigarette between the fingers of his left hand.

‘Pain is not an illusion,’ Draco says suddenly.

Potter throws him a glance.

‘It isn’t?’

‘No.’ Draco inhales the winter air slowly. ‘Pain is not an illusion,’ he repeats.

The silence between them enfolds them like the evening fog and slithers into their distanced bodies. The cigarette in Harry’s hand is barely glowing anymore as he takes a drag of it, only to keep it from extinguishing.

‘So what is it?’ he asks softly.

Draco smiles a little and looks up a the stars.

‘More or less what the sky is to you.’

Harry comes up to him quickly, bringing their faces close.

‘And what is the sky to me, you think?’ he drawls in a low tone.

Potter’s hard gaze nearly drills into Draco’s mind, as if the man wanted to find the answer there by himself. Draco gulps and inhales the bitter smell that has tied itself permanently to Harry’s body and will probably never let go.

‘The same that pain is to me?’ he says questioningly.

‘We’re not going to get very far this way,’ Potter murmurs, but draws back a little. ‘You want me to say the word?’ he asks suddenly.

‘Yes,’ Draco replies without a thought.

Harry stares into his eyes. He taps the ash from the tip of the cigarette and takes a short drag again, just to be able to smoke it as long as possible.

‘You’re not afraid?’

‘No,’ he says more quietly. ‘I’m afraid you _won’t_.’

‘No?’ Potter murmurs. He smiles gently and adds, ‘So I will. I will, as you wish.’ He falls silent for a moment. ‘But all in good time.’

He pulls further away. With his empty hand, he snatches his glasses and lifts them, setting them over his hair.

‘Impression,’ he says. ‘Seizing the day.’ When he sees Draco tilt his head, trying to comprehend the reason for the sudden change of topic, he smiles, the left corner of his mouth a little higher than the right one, and adds, ‘You’re blurry now. In fact, you’re a play of colour, light and shadow. Impression,’ he repeats. ‘The night sky.’

Draco nods and wants to get closer to him, but again realises he can’t move.

‘Harry…’ he starts, but Potter cuts him off.

‘No. Stand still. I want to take in the sight of you without my glasses on. You’re the essence of impression…’ He is silent for a moment. ‘Malfoy,’ he adds.

Draco squeezes his eyes shut and trembles, inhaling sharply. He wants to keep the wave of pain in as long as possible, flooding him like the bitter scent when Harry lights the candles, or like the music seeping into his mind and wrapping itself around him. But it passes, melting like snow on a window sill in morning sunlight.

‘So pain is to you what the sky is to me,’ Harry says, putting his glasses back on. ‘That’s intriguing.’ He takes a drag of the cigarette, which is growing shorter and shorter.

The darkness falling around them enfolds them gently and almost imperceptibly slithers all around, covering the surroundings. The fog is beginning to disperse, somehow reflecting the pain that is now only an echo of what Draco felt just a few seconds ago.

‘Do you remember what I told you the first time you spoke your family name in front of me, but didn’t feel pain?’ Harry asks quietly.

Draco thinks for a few seconds, trying to remember the exact moment, and then he knows what the man is talking about. He nods, feeling anxiety overtake him.

‘Quote it,’ Potter demands.

‘ _So maybe pain is the only thing you’ll have left of me,_ ’ he says slowly, making every effort to move.

Harry takes the last drag of the cigarette, burning it through. He looks at the filter and the still glowing tip, then crushes it against the nearest tree. 

‘Exactly,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s time. Close your eyes.’

Before Draco has the chance to protest, he feels his eyelids drop and his voice get stuck in his throat. After a moment he hears a soft whisper, which vanishes into the fog alongside Harry.

‘ _Obliviate._ ’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments make us two very happy gals!
> 
> A big big thank you to everyone who followed this story! <3
> 
> Drac (author)  
> Snappy (translator)


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